


After: The Series

by kuzibah



Series: After [1]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, F/M, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Male Slash, Prostitution, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 19:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 62,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16181549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuzibah/pseuds/kuzibah
Summary: What happened between Angel and Spike between episodes and after the series finale.





	1. After: Shells

Spike stayed on the steps for a long time, watching as the building emptied and the lights automatically dimmed for night. He couldn’t have said why he wasn’t up to moving, or doing much of anything. He just felt empty, as hollow as Fred must have been before that cunt of an elder god had moved into her body. They had failed her, and now there was nothing.

At that thought, he realized he was watching Angel through the glass office wall. The other vampire seemed similarly inert. He would pick up papers, try to distract himself, only to abandon them moments later and end up staring at his hands.

After a time, Angel looked up and saw Spike staring. Normally this would be the cue for Spike to make a hateful face, or look away quickly, but instead their gazes simply met and held, impassive, for a long moment.

Angel stood, crossed the lobby to where Spike sat, and still they watched one another.

“Where are you staying?” Angel asked, and Spike shrugged.

“Hadn’t thought about it,” he said, and Angel’s gaze finally dropped as he squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Come upstairs,” he said, the words half offer, half command, and Spike, knowing this was a mistake but not wanting to think about it too much, rose smoothly and followed him back into the office and the elevator to his apartment.

They rode the elevator in silence, now pointedly not looking at one another in the enclosed space, and exited into the living room.

Actually, living room was a bit of a misnomer, Spike mused. It was more like a tastefully-decorated football stadium. Angel indicated for Spike to sit, and he sank down into one of the enormous sofas, the arm hitting right at the top of his shoulder.

Angel retreated to the bar and returned with a tall bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses. He set them down on the table between them and poured. Neither spoke again until the bottle had been drained.

“I suppose we should get some sleep,” Angel said. “There will be demands made of us in the morning.”

“Tell them to sod off,” Spike said, but he stood and shrugged out of his coat, then sat back down and began to undo his boots.

“What are you doing?” Angel asked, sounding genuinely confused.

Spike fixed him with a “how dumb are you?” expression. “Getting ready for bed,” he said. “What did you think?”

Angel looked around the living room dubiously. “In here?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you ask me..?”

Angel shook his head with exasperation and pulled Spike to his feet. “Come on,” he said, dragging the younger vampire back towards his bedroom.

Spike dug in his heels at the threshold. “No, not a good idea,” he said firmly, and Angel let him go with a sigh.

“I’m trying to be nice,” Angel said. “It’s not like we’ve never shared a bed before.”

“Not with the soul, we haven’t,” Spike replied, a little more sharply than he intended. “I’m not squeezing in there with you now…”

“We’re not ‘squeezing’ anywhere, Spike. That bed’s practically a parade ground.”

“I said no.”

Angel pinched his nose again, and when he looked up, Spike thought he saw tears. “Please,” Angel said. “I can’t bear being alone.”

That cut it, because Spike suddenly realized he couldn’t, either. He shook his head and muttered, “not a good idea,” but he sat on the end of the bed and resumed taking off his boots while Angel withdrew to the bath to change into his pajamas.

They both climbed into bed, lying stiffly, careful not to touch one another, and when Angel doused the light, Spike remembered the last time they’d shared a bed.

It was in Sunnydale, at the factory, not long after Angel’s soul had gone flitting off. He’d had two modes in his relationship with Spike during those months: torment and ignore. Spike had tried to stay out of his way so as not to remind the brute of his existence, but that night he’d actually been sought out and rolled up to the bedroom Drusilla now shared with Angelus.

“I’ve something to try tonight,” Angelus had announced. “We’re going to try to heal our poor little Spikey… with love.”

It was on the tip of Spike’s tongue to say that he could easily be healed with some of Angelus’s blood, but that would be too close to asking, and Spike had vowed he would not ask.

Drusilla had clapped her hands in delight, and Angelus had stripped Spike of his clothes and carried him, like a child, to the bed. He’d laid him down naked between Drusilla and himself.

Angelus has started on Spike’s torso and throat, licking and sucking and biting until Spike twisted under him. Dru, meanwhile, had petted and nuzzled his unresponsive penis like it was one of her dead kittens. 

He’d tried to be still, tried to resist, but Angelus had employed all his skills as a master torturer, and after hours of their cruelty, Spike was sobbing with frustration and exhaustion.

“Please, stop,” he’d whispered at last, and with a triumphant laugh, Angelus had flipped him over and given him the most brutal fucking of his life, the pain so overwhelming he felt it despite the paralysis.

When he finally began to black out, Drusilla’s voice cut through the darkness to him. “Have we cured him, Daddy?”

“No, petal,” Angelus sighed. “I guess he doesn’t love us enough to get well.”

\- - - - -

“Spike, wake up.”

Spike shook himself awake, and jerked away from Angel in fear before remembering where and when he was. “What’s wrong?” he asked, the previous day’s events coming to him in a rush.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Angel said. 

Spike made an exasperated noise. “Is that all?”

“And you were…” Angel touched Spike’s cheek, his fingertips smearing one teardrop, and Spike turned angrily away.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Thinking of Fred.”

Angel gave a soft sigh, then reached out and wrapped one arm around Spike’s waist.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Spike tried to pull away, but Angel held firm.

“I’m sorry,” Angel said. “For everything I did to you then.”

Spike stilled. He hadn’t ever expected Angel to apologize to him for anything that had happened in Sunnydale, and wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly now. “What d’you mean?”

“I shouldn’t have hurt you,” Angel said quietly. “It was wrong. The soul did something, made me crazy. The old Angelus wouldn’t have done that.”

Spike thought on that a moment. “He might have,” he said then. “You could be a right bastard at times.”

“No, it was different,” Angel avowed. “I was trying to make you stronger in those days, less dependent on Dru. What I did in Sunnydale, that was just brutality.”

Spike gave a chuckle. “You’re drunk,” he said. “And you’re not making me see the difference.”

“Look at it the other way, then,” Angel said. “Think about the first time we shared a bed, and ask yourself if the Sunnydale Angelus would have done that.”

Spike didn’t reply, because he couldn’t really argue that point.

Angelus had come to the room William shared with Dru and pulled the younger vampire out of the bed and onto the floor. “Get dressed,” he’d snarled, ignoring William’s protests, then kicking William in the ribs when he didn’t move fast enough.

William pulled on some clothes, topping off with the greatcoat he’d been favoring lately, and followed Angelus into the street.

Dawn was coming on quickly, and Angelus was keeping up a steady complaint under his breath in which the word “bitch” was heavily featured. It wasn’t hard for William to figure out that Angelus and Darla had gotten into another one of their volcanic arguments, only this time, instead of Angelus submitting to his Sire, as usual, he’d either walked out or, more likely, been told to leave.

William just didn’t see why he had to be involved, but when he voiced this opinion he got roundly clouted for his trouble and dragged for a block and a half by his coat collar.

They knocked and were invited into a somewhat run-down old mansion in a disreputable part of town. Their “host” was a plump, balding man with the look of a cunning swine. He was dressed in a velvet smoking jacket and smoked a cigarette in a long silver holder.

The vampires followed him down a narrow hallway. “We need a room for a while,” Angelus said. “With the usual house privileges, of course.”

“It’s not a good time,” the man said cagily. “The coppers are putting the bite on us, again.”

Angelus sighed heavily. “If it’s about money…”

“No, the other,” the man said. “We just can’t have any ‘mysterious disappearances’ in the neighborhood this time.”

“We’ll be discreet,” Angelus said tightly. And then they stepped into a large salon.

The room was filled with the remnants of what looked to be quite the wild party. Empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays littered each table, and both Angelus and William coughed a little at the overpowering stink: cheap whisky, cheaper cigars, and the low-tide smell of spent human passion.

Their host handed them a room key. “It’s the usual one,” he told Angelus. “Top floor, in back. I’ll send one of the girls round when you’ve settled in.”

“I am in your debt,” Angelus said, and he dragged William up the stairs.

“Top floor, in back,” was more luxuriously appointed than its location had implied to William. There was a large fireplace with easy chairs and ottomans, a sideboard well stocked with liquor, and an enormous four-poster bed.

“So where am I supposed to sleep?” William said sullenly, and Angelus’s black mood broke for a moment. 

“Jesus, how can a vampire be so damned innocent?” he said. “You’ll be in the bed with me, you brainless thing.”

“The hell I will,” William said, and Angelus had him by the throat again.

“You’re a demon,” he growled. “An abomination before God and man.” He shoved William hard in the direction of the bed. “Stop acting like some prissy preacher’s daughter.”

William gave a hateful sneer, but did begin to remove his coat and boots. Angelus, meanwhile, opened a bottle of rye and took several deep swallows.

A bit later William dozed on the bed while Angelus drank by the fireplace. There was a soft knock, and the door eased ajar. William blinked his eyes open as a woman entered the room.

Her dark hair hung loose, and she seemed half-undressed in an open shift and dressing gown. She was bound up in a corset and black stockings, and her face was heavily made up. She looked like a whore who’d been dragged out of bed mid-transaction.

She nodded to Angelus as she went to the fire and stoked it up to full blaze, and the vampire nodded back.

Something about her made William’s brow furrow in confusion. She moved oddly, off. When she came to the bed, he realized what it was.

“You’re a bloke!” he blurted out, and the… person gave an affected giggle, covering his face coquettishly with one hand.

Angelus stepped up behind this odd hybrid and wrapped his large hands around his waist. “Sometimes only another man knows how to please us, William,” he said over the man’s shoulder, then said softly in his ear, “what is your name, my dear?”

“Daphne,” he said, and his voice was incongruously husky and deep. William laughed nervously. 

“Why don’t you get a little more comfortable… Daphne,” Angelus said, amusement creeping back into his voice. He turned the man around and unlaced the shift and dressing gown, pushing them off Daphne’s shoulders and onto the floor.

William stared, goggle-eyed and open-mouthed, at the creature before him. “Daphne” was slim and soft, and the corset pushed his torso into an approximation of girlish curves. His skin was shaved smooth and heavily powdered, and his bulge had been somehow concealed under frilly lace panties. Garters held up black stockings, and heeled boots made his legs appear long and shapely. He seemed other-worldly.

Angelus sprawled himself along the foot of the bed, regarding him. After a moment he magnanimously offered, “you go first, William.”

William shifted his stare to the other vampire. “What do you mean, ‘go first?’”

“Show my boy what I mean, Daphne,” Angelus said, waving one hand, and Daphne approached the bed. He pulled William up so he was seated at the edge, then sank gracefully down to kneel between his legs. 

When Daphne reached to undo William’s trousers, William gave a start and tried to swat him away, but Angelus was kneeling behind him in an instant. Angelus grasped William’s wrists, holding the younger vampire immobile, and shushed in William’s ear.

“Relax, little one,” he soothed, his voice like honey. “Let our dear Daphne do what *she* does best.”

William shivered as Daphne exposed his cock to the air, then licked and stroked it to hardness.

“How magnificent you are,” Daphne murmured, then took the engorged organ into his mouth.

William had, of course, had Dru’s mouth on his cock on various occasions, but her ministrations, while pleasurable, had been tentative and restrained. Ladylike.

Daphne was not restrained. She attacked, consumed, devoured him like a wild thing. William moaned, arched his body in Angelus’s arms, shaking. Then Daphne swallowed him whole, his throat tightening around William’s penis, wet and warm, and William cried out as he came.

Angelus’s arms slipped from around him, and he felt himself eased out from between Daphne’s lips.

“That’s all,” he heard Angelus say to Daphne.

“But he didn’t…”

“He did,” Angelus said. “There is no seed with us, but he is spent, nonetheless. Now go wait for me by the fireplace.”

William felt himself lifted onto the bed, and the blankets cocooned around him. Then he watched, still dazed, as Angelus bent the whore over an easy chair, slicked his own cock with a sweet-smelling grease from an earthen jar on the mantelpiece, and thrust himself inside Daphne until he came.

Afterwards, when Daphne had been dismissed, the two vampires lay together, William in Angelus’s embrace. “this is the way it should be between us,” Angelus had said. “We shouldn’t waste time in the pursuit of women who would make us their fools. As men we know each others’ desires, and can find pleasure between ourselves. To hell with all of them.”

And for two whole days William believed Angelus, until Darla appeared at the brothel’s doorstep, and led her errant offspring home like an ox is led through the ring in his nose.

\- - - - -

“You were drunk, then, too, as I recall,” Spike said after so many minutes of silence that Angel had to search for the thread of the conversation.

“So what?” he said after a moment.

“Oh, brilliant rejoinder,” Spike said. “My point is you only seem interested in shagging me if you’re completely wrecked or totally nutters.”

Angel gave this some thought, then tightened his arms around Spike. “maybe you’re right,” he said, “but I’m either too drunk or too crazy to think about it. Now go to sleep. Hopefully I won’t be entirely sane or sober in the morning.”

Spike said nothing, and after a few minutes he felt the shift in Angel’s weight that indicated he was asleep. But Spike lay still, awake and thinking, for a long time.

\- - - - -

When Spike woke up the next morning he was alone in Angel’s bed, but he noticed the blankets had been tucked around him to preserve the small amount of warmth there was. He climbed out of bed, stretched, and padded barefoot into the kitchen where Angel was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

Spike rummaged in the fridge for a bottle of blood, poured it cold into a glass, and grabbed the entertainment section as he slid into the chair opposite Angel. They both pretended to read for several minutes.

“Still crazy?” Spike asked finally.

Angel sighed and folded his paper. “Probably a little,” he said.

When Spike did not reply, but continued to flip through the paper, Angel went on. “I’m glad you were here last night,” he said. “I’d like you to stay.”

At this, the paper shook in Spike’s hands, and he very deliberately refolded it and set it on the table, not meeting Angel’s eye. He ran one finger back and forth along the edge of the table twice before he spoke. “Is it me you want?” he said. “Or am I just convenient? Because,” he cut off Angel’s reply with a look, “I’ve been convenient before.”

“I was evil, then…” Angel began.

“I don’t mean you,” Spike said, waving his hand dismissively. “I meant her. Buffy.”

Angel’s expression turned dark. “I don’t want to talk about her,” he said.

“I do,” Spike said. “You understand I loved her, worshiped her, really. And I’ve come to realize she chose to be with me because it wasn’t real to her, just like it ultimately wasn’t real with you.”

Now Angel was starting to look confused. “What do you mean? What wasn’t real?”

“The relationship, as much as that makes me sound like a woman,” Spike said. “She could take me, fuck me anytime she liked, and she never had to deal with what she’d have with a human guy. No talking, no emotional attachment. We don’t even come, for Christ’s sake.”

Angel winced to hear it spoken so boldly, but he reached out and took Spike’s hand, getting his full attention. “It’s different with me,” he said. “We’re both vampires. We’re in the same order; I’m the sire of your sire. And our histories are so entwined, we couldn’t untangle them if we tried. God knows we have,” he finished quietly.

Spike took a breath as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it and closed his mouth.

“Like it or not, we’ll always be connected,” Angel went on. “And if I choose you, it’s because I respect the power of that connection.” He let go of Spike’s hand, but kept looking him in the eye. “So what do you choose?”

Spike took a moment to consider Angel’s words. “It’s true,” he said. “We’ve shared a lot. And at the end of the day, I’d rather stand with you than against you.”

Angel nodded. “Alright,” he said, then stood to pour himself more coffee.

Silently, Spike stood and went to Angel, then took hold of Angel’s waist to turn him around. He raised one hand to Angel’s cheek and brought their mouths together in a kiss. 

Angel gave a small start of surprise, but almost immediately his eyes dropped closed and he returned the kiss in kind.

It was all too brief, and then Spike had pulled away, clearly amused at Angel’s confusion. “Just checking,” he said. He retreated from the kitchen and called back over his shoulder, “see you at your meeting.” Then he was gone.

Angel raised his fingers to his lips, feeling them tingle.


	2. After: Underneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened between Angel and Spike between episodes and after the series finale.

At the time, Spike hadn’t been surprised, had barely noticed it, really. Lorne had cut through his ruined shirt to dig the bullets out of his back, and Angel had just walked by and dropped a brand-new one on the table. It was only later, when he saw the neat stacks of denim and t-shirts on the bedroom dresser that he’d realized Angel had gone to the trouble of having fresh clothes delivered.

He opened the top drawer, found socks and underwear, hairbrush, razor and other toiletries. Opened the second and found a bathrobe, towels, and a pair of dark blue silk pajamas.

Spike looked over his shoulder as Angel walked past to his own wardrobe and began changing for bed himself. Spike pretty much expected Angel to be watching him, waiting for a reaction, or thanks, but he wasn’t. In fact, he seemed completely indifferent. Another surprise.

“I’m not wearing those poncey pajamas,” Spike said.

“Thought they’d be nicer than sleeping in your clothes,” Angel said reasonably. “But you don’t have to. You can sleep naked for all I care.”

And then Angel did turn to look at him, mortified by his own words. “Spike, I didn’t mean…”

But Spike had grabbed up the pajamas and some towels and shouldered his way past Angel into the bath.

\- - - - -

Spike entered the bedroom a bit later clad in the pajamas, feeling very self-conscious. He saw Angel look, then pretend he wasn’t looking, and Spike pretended he hadn’t seen Angel look in the first place.

“They’re alright,” Spike said. “Comfortable.”

“Good,” Angel said.

Spike plopped himself in the middle of the bed, bouncing a little. “So, how’s this work?” he said. “Do you seduce me or do I seduce you?”

“Uh…” Angel clutched his own pajamas to his chest and backed towards the bath. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Spike dropped flat onto his back and pulled a pillow over his face. “Shit,” he muttered.

After an unnecessarily long interval, Angel came back to find Spike rummaging through the nightstand drawer. 

“There isn’t… it’s in the medicine cabinet,” Angel said quietly.

Spike looked up. “A magazine?”

If vampires could blush, Angel would have. “I thought you were looking for…”

”I know,” Spike cut him off and slammed the drawer shut. He glanced around the room distractedly. “You need a TV in here, mate.”

“There is a TV,” Angel said, coming around the bed. He reached under the pillow and pulled out the remote. “It’s behind the wall.” With the press of a button, the wood paneling slid back to reveal an enormous flat-screen. Spike grinned.

“That’s brilliant,” he said.

Angel shrugged, pressing another button to close the wall again. He dropped the remote on the nightstand and sat down on the bed. “Look, Spike,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here, but I’m not sure that after what happened today that I’m ready to… you know, with you. Right now.”

Spike touched Angel’s shoulder lightly and gave a reassuring smile. “That’s the difference between you and me,” he said. “Right now, I can’t process any of this. It’s too big. So the primitive little part of my brain takes over, and all it knows is killing things and fucking until my head blows off.”

Angel allowed himself a smirk. “In that case, you’ve been in primitive brain mode since the first time I met you.”

Spike gave Angel a gentle shove. “Pillock,” he said, but he was smiling, too.

Angel lay down on his back and laced his fingers behind his head. Spike lay on his side alongside him. “We need to get Gunn out of there,” Angel said after a few minutes of thoughtful staring at the ceiling.

“Agreed,” Spike said quietly.

“But will the Senior Partners let us? Can they stop us? How much can they control what we learn?”

Spike moved closer, draped one arm over Angel’s waist and rested his head on Angel’s chest. “Don’t think right now,” he murmured. He slid his hand down to Angel’s thigh, then to rest on the fabric that covered his cock. Spike wasn’t surprised to find it half-hard. “Let me take care of you.”

Angel took hold of Spike’s hand, lifted it and rested the knuckles against his lips. “No,” Angel said, and he turned their bodies over. “Let me take care of you.”

Angel took hold of Spike’s hands, lifted them, stretched them above Spike’s head, and kissed him gently on the mouth. Then in one smooth, almost languid movement, Angel ran his hands down Spike’s arms, down his sides, hooked his thumbs in Spike’s waistband and stripped the garment off. Spike gave a small gasp, and Angel swallowed him down.

Spike had, in his long life, been taken this way many times. Drusilla, of course, in her detached and distracted way. The innumerable whores, both male and female, that he and Angelus had shared. Even Buffy, rarely, when she was in the bleakest moments of her depression.

But when it was just he and Angelus alone, there were certain unspoken rules between them which were unwavering in their assertion that Angelus penetrated Spike. Always.

Which is why Spike gave a shout of surprise and arched his body like a bow when he felt Angel’s mouth take him in, why he shuddered as he felt Angel lick and suck. Why he hid his face in his hands and gave a sob when he came.

His cock slipped from Angel’s lips and then the older vampire was alongside him, embracing him, stroking his face as he shivered in release.

“Oh, God,” Spike panted. “Where in Hell did you learn that?”

Angel smiled. “Exactly,” he said.

The meaning of Angel’s words hit him, and Spike hugged him back. “No,” he said. “They didn’t…”

“Shh,” Angel soothed, touching Spike’s lips to still him. “It doesn’t matter how. I wanted to do that for you.”

Spike lowered his eyes seductively, and his hand crept back to Angel’s waist. “Now let me do for you,” he said.

Angel took his hand again, pulled him back into an embrace. “I can’t. Not right now.” He turned Spike in his arms, spooning against his back. “Sleep now,” he said. “Just let me hold you.”

And Spike, exhausted in mind and body, did. 

\- - - - -

For the second morning in a row, Spike awoke alone in Angel’s bed, again wrapped up. He mused about how long it had been since someone had cared about his comfort, realized he must have had a pulse at the time. And for that, the insanity that was happening between them just might be worth nurturing along.

He found Angel in the kitchen, same as before, coffee and newspaper. But he was determined not to dance around the elephant today. 

“Why did you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?” Angel said.

“Stop being deliberately dense,” Spike said, pulling the paper out of Angel’s hands. “Why did you stop me last night? It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”

“That was different,” Angel said, reaching for his paper. Spike held it well out of reach.

“Is this about your stupid curse?” Spike said. “For God’s sake, Angel, do you honestly believe you could ever have perfect happiness with me?”

“It’s not about the curse,” Angel said, then he turned away from Spike’s dubious glare. “Okay, it’s a little about the curse,” he amended, “but it’s more about the past.”

Spike sat down opposite, folded the paper and set it on the side of the table furthest from Angel. “What about the past?”

Angel fidgeted a moment, not meeting Spike’s eyes. “When we were together… before,” he said, “you were always limited because I was your elder, and stronger than you, and I was evil. Your desires were always second to mine. I don’t want it to be that way now. I don’t want you, um… taking care of me because you feel obligated to.”

There was a long minute of silence while Spike stared at Angel in disbelief. “You’re bloody stupid,” Spike said finally. “You do know that.” He stood and crossed to the counter, his back to Angel, who watched him expectantly, knowing Spike would continue soon enough. 

Spike leaned on the counter, slightly bent over, hands apart, then turned. “I do what I want,” he said. “I told you night before last, I’m not going to be used again. Whatever I do, I do because *I* enjoy it. If you could get over all of the macho bullshit you learned 200 years ago, you’d know just how good it can be.” He turned his head away angrily, then slowly back a moment later, eyes soft and lusty now. “And unless I misjudge my own charms, you will find out for yourself, soon enough.”

Angel swallowed hard. “Uh… we’ll see, I guess.”

Spike smiled knowingly. “We’ll see, then,” he agreed, heading for the kitchen door. 

“Spike,” Angel stopped him, and Spike turned. “I’ll find something for you to fight today,” he said.

“Finally,” Spike said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m holding you to that, mate. And don’t worry,” he added. “I have a feeling today’s gonna be better.”


	3. After: Origin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a multi-part leading up until the end of the series describing the slashy goings-on between Angel and Spike between the episodes, also with flashbacks.

Angel stepped into the darkened bedroom and heard Spike’s voice weakly from the bed.

“Don’t turn on the light.”

“I won’t,” Angel said, his eyes already adjusted. He crossed to the bed, took off his jacket and draped it over the footboard, sat on the edge of the bed and toed off his shoes. “How long did you stay with her?”

“Till she broke my arm. Don’t worry,” Spike said when Angel gave a start. “One of your sawbones waved his magic stethoscope over it, said I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“Let me see,” Angel said, and with a roll of his eyes, Spike dutifully held out his arm.

“I’m fine,” Spike assured him.

With a nod, Angel lowered the arm and stood, crossing to the wardrobe. “Let me change. I’ll be right back.”

When Angel returned, Spike was dozing, and he slid into bed carefully so as not to disturb him. He laid one hand on Spike’s stomach.

“Missed you last night,” Spike said quietly.

“Sorry about that. Had some things to kill.”

“Right,” Spike said. “How is your boy?”

Angel spluttered awake. “My what?”

“The kid you were looking out for. What’s-his-name.”

“Connor,” Angel said.

“Yeah, him. With the hair,” Spike said. “How’d things go with him?”

Angel smiled in the dark. “Really well. Better than I ever could have hoped.”

“Good,” Spike said. “And don’t worry. We’ll figure out something for Gunn tomorrow.”

Angel’s buoyant mood suddenly deflated. “Yeah,” he said. “I hope so.” He put his arms around Spike and pulled him close, and Spike gave a hiss of pain. 

“Sorry,” Angel said, and put him carefully down.

“I’ll be better tomorrow,” Spike repeated. “I think I’m starting to find her weaknesses.”

“You’re not going back in with her?”

“The hell I’m not. That’s the best time I’ve had since you opened that envelope with me in it, broken bones and all.”

Angel shook his head, pushed himself up to sit against the headboard. “Come here,” he told Spike. “Lie in my lap.”

Spike gave him a look. “What are you up to?” he said, but turned to rest his head against Angel’s thigh. Angel stroked his hair fondly, then shifted into the face of his demon and tore into his own wrist with sharp fangs. 

“You don’t have to…” Spike began, tried to move away, put too much weight on his wounded arm, stopped. 

Angel pressed his bleeding wrist against Spike’s lips. “Just drink,” he said.

\- - - - -

William let the latest empty bottle slip from his senseless fingers to join the others on the floor. He and Angelus had moved into this Montmartre flat three days before when the previous occupant, a Bohemian painter, had fallen in with “two gentlemen of questionable character.” 

Much to the vampires’ delight, the painter had had something of a reputation among the free-spirited young ladies in the area, and so far seven of the young things had come calling. William and Angelus had eaten like emperors and had not had to venture out even once. At this rate, William thought, Darla might very well believe he and Angelus had left Paris and move on herself. They might successfully avoid her for months, with any luck.

William blinked through his drunken muddle to see Angelus carefully arranging their latest prey alongside the others, her skin still fair and clear, unlike some of her sisters who’d spent a few more hours in that fell sergeant’s embrace.

Angelus’s plan, such as it was, was to leave their victims in such a way as to make it seem the Bohemian did the murders and then poisoned himself. The scandal would be a sensation for months, perhaps leading to a spate of “imitators” in the district.

Satisfied at last with his work, Angelus sank down onto the divan. He turned towards William with a goatish leer and stroked one hand over his crotch. “Why don’t you come and sit in my lap, boy,” he said.

“Can’t. Knackered,” William slurred. His eyes fell shut, so he didn’t see Angelus spring from his seat, haul him up with a shake that made his teeth rattle.

“You’ll damn well do as I say,” Angelus roared, and he flung William across the room and into the cold fireplace, where the younger vampire collided with the andirons and tumbled into a heap in the ashes.

He came to cradled by Angelus, who had apparently entered into the remorseful phase of his current intoxication. “Oh, William, lad, I’ve broken you,” he sobbed. “It’s the absinthe, always gets my blood up.”

William took a breath to tell Angelus not to be such a sloppy fool, felt several broken ribs stab into his lungs, and managed only a pathetic whimper.

“You’re still with me,” Angelus crooned. “Here, little one. I’ll take care of you.” He tore at his wrist with sharp teeth, pressed the wound to William’s mouth. “Drink, now. A sire’s blood will heal whatever ails you.”

\- - - - -

Angel’s blood hit Spike’s nervous system like pure white Chinese heroin. He’d only been allowed to drink it on a few rare occasions in the past, and the rush was always the same. It had now been over a century since it had last passed his lips, but the effect had not dulled in the least.

The pain in his arms evaporated, color flooded his vision, and his ears roared. Every inch of his skin tingled like an electric shock ran in his veins, and his cock felt as hard as glass.

Time seemed to expand, the seconds stretching into hours, but still, when Angel pulled his wrist away Spike mewled like a needy kitten.

When his head began to clear, Spike found himself curled in Angel’s lap, his arms round Angel’s shoulders as he nuzzled the older vampire’s throat. He knew only his own instinct for self-preservation had kept him from biting.

Spike gave a jerk of surprise and embarrassment, but Angel stilled him with a gentle touch and soft words. He examined Spike’s arm, which was now whole and smooth. Pleased, he guided Spike’s mouth to his and kissed him, each kiss growing in passion.

Spike pressed himself into Angel’s kisses, and rotated his hips to grind against the older vampire’s growing erection. Both moaned at the sensation.

Spike pulled away and turned his attention to Angel’s cock. “Oh, God, I want this,” he said.

Angel moved back. “No, Spike, you don’t have…”

Spike took Angel’s chin in his hand, forcing him to look him in the eye. “Stop it, Angel,” he said. “Your blood is vibrating inside me. I need this connection with you.” He reached down and lifted Angel’s shirt up and over his head, then moved down the bed and pulled off his pants. 

Angel turned away, but Spike took him gently and laid him down on his back. “Just lie still, then,” Spike said, his voice husky with desire. “Let me…” He trailed off and stripped out of his own pajamas, then made to get out of the bed.

“No,” Angel said. “I moved it. It’s in the nightstand now.”

Spike grinned and leaned across Angel’s body, pulled open the drawer, removed a tube of scented gel. “Made a few advancements in the last hundred years,” Spike noted, squeezing some into his hand and slicking it over Angel’s cock.

Angel groaned and arched his back, and Spike moved to straddle him, splaying his fingers over Angel’s chest. He lifted himself up on his knees, and guiding with one hand impaled himself on Angel’s cock. 

Both vampires gave drawn-out sighs of pleasure, and after a moment Spike began to raise and lower himself. Angel looked up at him, Spike’s white skin reflecting the orange light from the city below, his eyelashes dark smudges against his cheeks. Angel rested his hands on Spike’s thighs, felt the muscles shift under his palms.

Angel’s head tipped back and he cried out, “William,” as he came.

Spike followed with a long, wordless “ah,” and he took hold of Angel’s hands. 

\- - - - -

Angel woke the next morning to the very pleasant sensation of his bare skin against Spike’s, and he took a few moments to examine the younger vampire while he slept. In repose, Spike looked vulnerable, almost innocent, his delicate features not set in their usual studied toughness.

Reluctantly, Angel slipped out of bed, tucked the covers around Spike, and repaired to the kitchen where his newspaper and coffee were waiting. The L.A. Times morning delivery to his kitchen table had begun the first day he’d taken residence, and as closely as Angel could determine, it was teleported in hot off the press. The coffeemaker, too, always seemed to be finishing up its brewing just as Angel awoke, no matter the time of day or night. Maybe Wolfram and Hart had a few brownies on the payroll, he mused.

Spike padded in about twenty minutes later, stretching and twisting his back. He gave Angel a grin that went straight to the older vampire’s groin, and helped himself to a mug of coffee. 

“Now that,” he declared, taking the seat opposite Angel, “was a good night.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Angel said.

“I’m paying this morning, of course,” Spike went on.

“Your arm?” Angel looked up, concerned.

“Arm is fine. Never better,” Spike confirmed. “I was actually referring to a more… intimate injury. Stop looking like that. It happens. There’s nothing to be done.”

“What do you mean, ‘it happens?’ You’re hurt every time?”

Spike shrugged. “I was turned a virgin,” he said, deceptively casual. “It’s always the first time for me. You’re doing the look again. I told you to stop that. It doesn’t matter. It’s part of what I am. Who I am.”

“I never thought,” Angel said. “I shouldn’t have…”

“Shouldn’t have what?” Spike interjected. “Turned me? Fucked me? Ever, or just last night?”

“Spike…”

“You’re ridiculous,” Spike said. “You think I would give up being with you, the *pleasure* of being with you, over a little discomfort? We’re *vampires.* The pain is part of the package.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Just shut up, Angel,” Spike said, but with no heat in his voice. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll screw you to the mattress next time.” As soon as the words left him, Spike realized what he’d said, and his head shot up, his mouth open as though to call the words back. 

Their gazes met, and Angel saw Spike’s eyes widen, startled, even as he felt his own go dark with lust. “I’m holding you to that,” Angel said.

Spike, clearly rattled, dropped his gaze, mumbled something even Angel couldn’t hear, made a retreat to the bedroom to dress.

Angel took another sip of coffee, and turned to the hockey scores.


	4. After: Time Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened between Angel and Spike between episodes and after the series finale.

Angel came into his bedroom, wanting Spike to be there, found him sprawled across the bed as he clicked methodically through the channels on the large-screen TV.

“Did you know you get five-hundred and seventy channels?” Spike said, not taking his eyes from the screen. “I think you’re getting sattellite feeds from some of the Hell dimensions. Or that might be Telemundo. It’s hard to tell…”

Angel walked slowly to the bed, stripping out of his clothes as he went. Barefoot and shirtless, he climbed in, took Spike into his arms, clicked off the television. 

“Hey,” Spike said reflexively, then realized the intensity of Angel’s embrace and went still, allowed Angel to explore Spike’s body with his hands, kiss his hair, his throat, his eyelids.

Only when Angel stilled himself, his arms wrapped tight around Spike, did the younger vampire dare to speak. “What’s wrong?” he said.

“You were dust,” Angel said. “She killed you and there was nothing left.”

“Killed you, too, you said,” Spike said calmly. “Except she didn’t. We’re both still here.”

“We’re playing a dangerous game, Spike. Just when I’ve found you, I could lose you that quickly.”

Both absorbed that for a minute, then Spike pulled away. “What is it?” Angel said.

“This place,” Spike told him. “We need to get you out of here for a few hours. Both of us. Out.” He crossed to the bureau and pulled out some of his usual clothes. “Get dressed,” he said. “Come on.”

Dazedly, Angel went to his wardrobe, took out some of his work clothes, felt Spike’s hand on his arm. “Not those,” Spike said, rummaging into the back and pulling out a plain, white t-shirt and a pair of black jeans Angel had forgotten he owned. “Find your boots, too,” Spike said. “The ones you were wearing the first time I came to town.”

It took Angel a moment to recall what Spike was talking about, and when he did the contrast between the Spike who came for the Gem of Amarra and the one who was here in his bedroom made his stomach give an unpleasant lurch. He focused on the details, instead. “I think they were burned in the fire,” he said.

Spike made an annoyed sigh. “Just something besides Italian loafers, Angel.”

They found their way to the elevator, pressed the call button. “Where are we going?” Angel asked as the bell for their floor chimed.

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” And Spike pulled him through the opening doors and into a kiss that made Angel’s ears ring.

They stopped on the ground level, and Spike took Angel’s hand and led him towards the back door.

“Don’t we need a car?” Angel asked. “For where we’re going?”

“I’ll get a car,” Spike said. “But it won’t be one of theirs, where they can find us.”

They exited into the hot evening air, walked several blocks. Spike, good to his word, found a sporty but nondescript coupe, and had it open and hot-wired in less than a minute. 

“Where are we going?” Angel asked again as they hit the entrance ramp doing eighty.

“Place I know,” Spike said. “Up the coast, on the ocean.”

“Spike, we can’t just leave…”

“Just for tonight, Angel,” Spike said, his voice odd and sharp. “Let’s pretend it’s a hundred years from now. Everyone we both know is long dead. From natural causes, at a very old age. In their sleep. We’ve saved the world enough that it finally takes, and nobody cares if we drive out for some dinner, okay? Can we do that?”

Angel looked at Spike, saw the tension in his hands. “Yeah, okay. We can do that.”

\- - - - -

They pulled into a palm-shaded parking lot on a cliff overlooking the sea. There were maybe a dozen other cars scattered about, some with surfboards strapped to the roofs. The place itself looked old, somewhere Frankie and Annette might have met their friends for a beach party. Two carved wooden tikis flanked the door, and flowered vines grew wild over the pink-and-aqua-patterned walls. A sign with a red macaw announced the name: Sandy’s. Below, a smaller sign announced the “house rules.” Angel was only able to take in #5 (“If she calls, you left ten minutes ago”) and #6 (“If HE calls, we never heard of you”) before they stepped inside.

Inside was comfortably cluttered, the walls hung with old signs, surfboards, and kitschy bric-a-brac, the kind of atmosphere so many places tried to duplicate but which felt organic here, as though left by the tide of a thousand wayward travelers.

In the middle of the room stood a large barbecue pit, and a few customers stood at it, grilling steaks. At the far end, a boy with a guitar, his hair washed golden by the sun, sang a song of love and longing.

Spike led Angel to the glass-fronted case at the end of the bar, where meat, chicken, and fish fillets marinated in Pyrex trays. “Give us two black diamond steaks, mate. Fresh, no sauce, and keep your potatoes and bread and whatnot,” Spike told the server. “And send the barmaid round.”

Spike accepted two slabs of beef on plates, raw and bloody, and led the way to a table in back. He waved the meat in the general direction of the grill as he went. “I think that’s done enough, don’t you?” he asked, and Angel grinned.

“This place is… interesting,” Angel said when they were settled. 

“Ran across this place on my way to Mexico about five years back,” Spike said around a mouthful of meat. “Been back a few times since. Stays off the map intentionally, I think. Mostly locals. Surfers. Old hippies. You know.”

“Hey, dudes, what’ll it be?” It was a slow night, and the bartender himself had come over. He wore a Hawaiian shirt in shades of orange and yellow, and a nametag that said, “Starcat.”

“Bottle of Jack, and two glasses,” Spike said.

“Please, no,” Angel said, then turned to Starcat with a look that asked for sympathy. “Listen,” he said. “I’m hoping my instincts are correct, and you’ve a liquor cabinet with bottles that aren’t on the regular menu. Something dark, subtle? Irish?”

Starcat looked thoughtful.

“Old enough to run for Senate?” Angel said hopefully. “Need I say money’s no object?”

Starcat nodded. “Give me a few minutes.”

Angel looked back at Spike to find the younger vampire regarding him with a doubtful expression.

“What?” Angel said.

“You’re going all sentimental,” Spike said. “That’s never been good.”

Angel cut himself a sliver of beef and twirled it around his fork like a noodle. “We’re celebrating the centennial of our endgame,” he said. “It’s a hundred years from now and we’re going to toast absent friends and the memory of battles long past. And then we’ll drink to the hope of another century of you and me as friends and allies.”

“And lovers?” Spike said quietly.

“Is that what we are?” Angel said, just as quiet.

Starcat came back, placed a squat, brown bottle and two glasses on the table. “You’ll need to buy the whole bottle, bro‘,” he said. “House rule.”

Angel passed him three one-hundred-dollar bills. “Keep the change.”

Spike examined the yellowing label. “Amazing,” he said. “Starcat the fourth has a bottle of hundred and forty-one year-old Nealgan’s.”

“Bless his Kahuna heart,” Angel said, pouring them each a glass. 

They ate and drank wordlessly, and at the end of the room, the singer transitioned into the Beach Boys. “I may not always love you, But long as there are stars above you… You never need to doubt it. I'll make you so sure about it,” he sang. “God only knows what I'd be without you.”

”It’s a full moon this week,” Angel said after several minutes.

“So?”

“Nina will be coming,” Angel went on. “And we’ve sort of been… seeing each other.”

“You gonna marry her?” Spike said casually.

“What? No!”

“Settle down? Buy a house in Santa Clarita? Adopt a few stray puppies?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you, in fact,” Spike said, “foresee the whole affair lasting longer than a few months?”

“What’s that have to do…”

“Be honest!”

“Honestly? No.”

“And in a hundred years?”

Angel opened his mouth to reply, instead said nothing and poured more whiskey.

“It’s like you said when we started,” Spike said. “We’re connected. Tonight, next month, next year, next fucking century, until we’re both dust for real. We’ll fight, we’ll go our separate ways, we’ll take other lovers. Hell, maybe we’ll share some. But we’ve drawn a line, Angel. We’ve accepted that we’re part of one another, and we can’t unaccept that. No matter what else happens, we both have a place now.” He downed his last mouthful of whiskey, reached for the bottle, emptied it into his glass. “I don’t know about you, but that’s a damn sight better offer than anyone else has given me.”

Angel nodded, mulling Spike’s words. “So you’re okay with this?”

Spike grinned. “Didn’t say that,” he said. “Seriously, Angel. A werewolf? Even Sixty-Second Review panned that movie.”

“At least I didn’t sink to being Harmony’s little ‘blondie bear,’” Angel replied.

“Yeah, that was a low-water mark,” Spike admitted, “but when she was riding me like the last chopper out of ’Nam…”

“Please,” Angel interrupted. “I’m still eating.”

Spike laughed, then pouted, and when Angel looked up, Spike pantomimed a kiss to the air.

“Okay, now I’m done,” Angel said, getting to his feet. He and Spike both downed the last dregs of their whiskey, and Angel put his hand on the back of Spike’s neck to guide him out the door.

They walked to the low stone wall that overlooked the beach, stood in the inky shadow of a stand of palms. Spike tapped out two cigarettes, lit them both, passed one to Angel, who took it wordlessly. The gibbous moon gave the illusion of midday to their vampire eyes, and they watched the waves roll in as they smoked.

When they’d done, Spike sat up on the wall, pulled Angel to stand between his knees and hooked his heels behind Angel’s thighs. He held Angel’s face between his hands, just looking, for a moment, then drew him in for a kiss.

Angel wrapped his arms around Spike’s slim body and held him tight, kissed him over and over, and for a few moments, their focus narrowed only to one another.

\- - - - -

They left the car just where they’d found it, and walked slowly back towards Wolfram & Hart. “Time to come back to 2004,” Angel said, a little wistfully.

Spike didn’t answer, only reached out, took Angel’s hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. 

They entered on the ground floor, walked through the lobby, opened the door to Angel’s office.

Hamilton was standing by Angel’s desk, and he looked up expectantly as they came in.

Spike tried to pull his hand away, but found Angel was holding it tight. It gave him confidence, and he stood straighter, challenging the liaison to make a remark.

“We’d wondered where you’d gone,” Hamilton said. “We hadn’t considered…”

“Now you know,” Angel said.

Hamilton appeared to be recalculating things in his head. “I had a report for you…”

“Save it until morning,” Angel said, leading Spike towards the elevator. The doors opened at their approach and they stepped in, Hamilton watching curiously as they went.

As the doors began to close, Angel pressed Spike against the wall, went in for a kiss. Spike glanced back towards the office, anxious. “Aren’t you worried he’ll tell everyone?”

Angel looked out at the new liaison, and his face was knowingly smug. “Who’d believe him,” he said, and the doors clamped shut.


	5. After: The Girl in Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a multi-part leading up until the end of the series describing the slashy goings-on between Angel and Spike between the episodes, also with flashbacks.

Spike sprang up from where he was perched on the edge of the desk, roared, struck one of the tables with his fists and broke it into pieces. 

Angel watched him impassively, let him rage until, worn out, he sank to he floor. 

“Are you done?” Angel said.

“No!” Spike replied petulantly, surveyed the wreckage around him, said more quietly, “…yes.”

Angel touched the button on his desk that made the office windows obscure, crossed to crouch at Spike’s side. Spike dropped his face into his hands and sighed. “You couldn’t have done that five minutes ago?” he grumbled.

Angel tipped his head forward and chuckled. After a moment Spike joined him. “What a pair we are,” Spike said.

“Why does she always do this to us?” Angel said. “A few days ago it was all so easy. What is it about her?”

“Well, she’s Buffy, isn’t she,” Spike said.

Angel slumped down, resigned. “Yeah,” he said.

They sat side by side, quiet for several minutes.

“She doesn’t want us, you know,” Spike said at last.

“I know,” Angel said.

Another few minutes and Angel stood, held out a hand and helped Spike to his feet. 

“Remember what you said about letting the primitive brain take over?” Angel said quietly.

“Yeah,” Spike said.

Angel looked into Spike’s eyes. “You think you could show me how to do that?”

Spike put a hand on the back of Angel’s neck, leaned his head forward until their foreheads touched. “Come upstairs,” Spike said, his voice low and husky. “Let old Spike take care of you.”

\- - - - -

They undressed one another slowly, washed each other gently under Angel’s shower, laughed and teased. Spike brought Angel back to the bed and laid him down.

“I think I still need to make good on a promise,” Spike said, then turned away nervously. “I mean, if you still want me to.”

“Yes, I want you to,” Angel affirmed.

Spike sat alongside him and delicately, reverently, stroked the side of Angel’s thigh. “This will be the first time I’ve ever been with you like this,” he said, his voice betraying his disbelief. “I… It’s a little… overwhelming.”

Angel caught Spike’s fingers, held them a moment. “I want this,” he repeated. “We need to make this right between us. Bring us back.”

Spike nodded, reached for the slick that now stayed on top of the nightstand, squeezed some out. As he lifted Angel’s leg and rolled him back, Spike seemed to realize something.

“This will be your first time with any man like this, won’t it?” he said.

Angel laughed. “No,” he said.

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Who..? Not the old bat?”

“No,” Angel said. “But, Hell aside, let’s just say it wasn’t all alleys and rats during that hundred years.”

Spike didn’t quite conceal his disappointment. “Oh,” he said. “I guess… it was a long time.”

Angel’s expression softened. “But this will be the first time with a man who cared about me,” he said. “Someone who knows me.” He guided Spike’s hand where it needed to go. “Someone who I care about and want to be with.”

Spike came out of his mood and began to prepare Angel to receive him. He laid down and positioned himself. “I’ll be gentle,” he said, and he pushed his cock inside.

Angel arched up against Spike, wrapped one leg around Spike’s back, wrapped his hands around Spike’s torso and held tight. Spike gripped Angel’s biceps and groaned with pleasure, began a slow, easy rhythm.

They moved this way until both lost their sense of time, of where they were, of everything but each other. Spike found he couldn’t help but stare at Angel’s face, his eyes, his mouth, wanting to impress this moment on his memory for when it was over.

Angel began to pant, small, breathy cries that came at the apex of each thrust. Spike screwed his eyes closed, lowered one hand, wrapped it around Angel’s cock and began to stroke in time, a hard squeeze down, the lightest caress coming up.

“William,” Angel breathed. “I’m… Oh, God…”

“Angel!” Spike cried out as he came, every muscle so taut it trembled, and Angel followed with a gasp almost like a sob.

Spike pressed his mouth against Angel’s, kissed him, marveling at how Angel’s lips were so soft, softer than a man’s ought to be. They collapsed into each other’s arms. Spike shook, partly from exertion, mostly from emotion.

Spike opened his eyes, and Angel could see he was so overcome that they shone with unshed tears. Spike raised one hand, wonderingly, to touch Angel’s face. 

“Angel,” he whispered. “I…”

Angel pressed his face forward, caught Spike’s mouth with his own, and kissed the breath out of him, leaving him unable to speak.

\- - - - -

They spooned together, dozed, snuggled, unwilling to leave the bed and return to the demands that waited for them.

Spike found himself unable to stop touching Angel, boldly, possessively. The boundary having finally been crossed he gave himself permission to explore a hundred other things formerly forbidden between them: the feel of Angel’s skin, like silk gliding over marble, the color of the veins in his eyelids, the shape of his mouth when he slept.

Even when Angel fully awoke he allowed, encouraged Spike to continue. 

“After all this time,” Spike said quietly. “The things I never saw before.”

Angel smiled, but it was sad, and he turned his gaze to the ceiling. Spike stretched across him, watching his face.

“What are you thinking about?” Spike asked after a few minutes.

“Us. This place. How we got here. The price we paid.” Angel put an arm around Spike, stroked his hair absently. “You were right. This is a deal we shouldn’t have taken.”

“We made our choices, Angel, for our own reasons. We all roll the bones.”

“I thought I could do good,” Angel said. “With the resources here, I could make up for all of the evil I’d done as Angelus. But everything that happens depends on something else. Fred wouldn’t have died if we hadn’t come here. We wouldn’t have come here if we didn’t defeat Jasmine. Jasmine wouldn’t have been born if… Back to Sunnydale, back to China, back to the curse, back to you, to Dru, to Darla in that alley. All of it.” Angel’s expression turned hard. “How do we even it out? How good is good enough?”

“Doesn’t work that way, love,” Spike said. “There’s not some cosmic ledger book where you balance your accounts.”

“Is there even any point at all, then? Is there a final reward, or does it all just end?”

Spike gave a small shudder. “We both know it doesn’t,” he said.

“Then it all goes back to the beginning,” Angel said. “Were we irrevocably damned when we swallowed our first taste of blood?”

Spike sighed. “So it’s all hopeless because we’re vampires, then?”

“I don’t know,” Angel said sincerely. “Maybe.”

Spike, rolled onto his back to stare upwards, as well. “Do you ever think about that? What your life would have been if you hadn't become a vampire?”

The long pause clearly said Angel hadn't. “I'd have drunk myself into an early grave, I guess,” he said. “Either that, or grown up and taken over my father's business. Could have gone either way.”

“I know exactly what my life would have been like,” Spike said. 

Angel looked over at Spike expectantly.

“I know exactly what my life would have been like,” he began again, his voice taking the tone of one relating a well-known tale. “Having been burned, like Icarus, when I tried to touch the sun that was Cecily, I'd have plunged back to earth and into despair. Monday morning, I'd have returned to my miserable position as clerk for a linen importer, where I'd have scribbled numbers into columns while dreaming of real love and sneaking a line or two of poetry onto a scrap of paper I kept hidden beneath my ledger.

“This would go on, day in and day out, for years, most likely, until a friend of my mother's with a spinster daughter decided I was better than nothing, and the three of them--- my mother, her friend, and the girl--- would trap me as surely as any spider netted a fly.

“If I was lucky, the girl would merely be plain and uninteresting.” Spike's voice lowered conspiratorially, “but believe me, I was never lucky. Therefore, I expect she'd be a shrill and demanding harpy, who would spend me to the brink of debtor's prison while doing her best impersonation of a marble statue in bed.”

Angel grinned at this image, and Spike joined him. “Somehow this loveless and joyless union would produce children,” Spike went on, “mewling brats we couldn't ship off to boarding school fast enough. They would see their father as a distant and somewhat pathetic figure, dominated by his overbearing wife, and hiding in his study whenever he could. 

“When I died, they would find in the bottom drawer of my desk a stack of copybooks, filled with poems of love and longing, and all of them would laugh at their foolish old father. My wife would wear her widow's weeds not one day longer than required by propriety, and my name would be no more than a line in the church role book to be discovered and dutifully jotted down by a great-great-grandchild researching the family tree, and a small marble stone lost in the brush at Highgate.”

Spike fell silent, and after a moment crept over to Angel and touched his fingertips to the older vampire's cheek. “Look at you,” he said gently. “Crying over the death of someone who never was.”

Angel squeezed his eyes shut, and the tears ran down his face. “Yes,” he said simply.

Spike leaned forward and very gently touched his lips to Angel’s eyelid, tasting the tear. “Don’t,” he said. “Not for me. I regret the killings, but I don’t regret dying. Our lives have been great adventures, even when we were evil. There were prophecies about us, powerful forces aligning all around us. It’s a big picture, and we’re both part of it.”

Angel reached out, pulled Spike back into his arms. “But am I the subject, or the painter?” he mused.

“Make your choice and find out.”

Angel stroked Spike’s hair again, an action that was comforting to them both. “Go to sleep,” he said.

\- - - - -

Spike woke nested again in the blankets, but the warmth seemed somehow absent. He rose, but did not go to the kitchen right away. Instead he washed and dressed, prepared for whatever work he’d do today. He found Angel, too, fully dressed, the newspaper untouched, drinking his coffee as he stood by the sink. 

“Big day today?” Spike asked.

“Do you still have that apartment you were living in before?” Angel said, ignoring the question.

Spike turned wary. “Yeah…”

“I need you to go there tonight.”

Spike stood still, not trusting his tongue. Angel stepped towards him, took his face in his great hands as though Spike were a child. 

“You need to separate yourself from me,” Angel said. “It isn’t safe anymore.”

Spike shook his head. “It’s never been safe,” he said. “What’s happened? Did one of your humans..?”

“No. It’s bigger than that. I’d tell you to trust me, but I don’t trust myself. You just have to go.”

“How long?” Spike felt like the ground was sliding away beneath his feet. His voice was touched with desperation when he repeated his question. “How long before I can come back?”

“William!” Angel spoke sternly. “Do as I say!”

Spike laid one hand over Angel’s where it still touched his cheek. “How long?”

Angel turned his head, a little left, back, a tiny gesture of helplessness. “Please, little one.”

Spike jerked back, out of Angel’s hands. “I haven’t been your little one since the nineteenth century,” he said. “Something’s wrong, Angel. I know you…”

Angel shook his head again, harder this time. “Then you know what I’ll do to get you gone,” he said.

They stared each other down, Spike turning away first. After a moment he looked up again. “I’ll go,” he said. “But I’ll be back.” And he left the apartment.

\- - - - -

**China – 1900**

Drusilla stretched her arms above her head and rolled her neck back and forth. “My Angel is back,” she cooed.

Spike, to his credit, only gave a momentary pause where he lay atop her, thrusting inside. “Yes, I heard,” he snarled, and began again.

“I was afraid we’d never see him again.”

Spike curled one hand into a fist. He wouldn’t hit her, but he wanted to. “Dru,” he said. “Do you think you could attend to the task at hand for just a few more minutes!” The last came out as a shout.

She seemed to become aware of his presence. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said sweetly. “Do carry on.”

He grunted in frustration, then began pistoning more quickly in and out. He came with a cry, his head thrown back, his eyelids fluttering.

She made a tiny, “oh,” so close to nothing that Spike doubted it had any connection to him at all, and was more likely some stray fancy about cuttlefish or steam engines or the color yellow.

He pulled away form her, snatched for his clothes. “I’m going for a drink,” he announced, knowing his words were for no one’s benefit but his own, and he stomped out of the room and down the hall.

In the darkness of the interior hallway, he nearly collided with Angelus, who was creeping out of the room he shared with Darla. In an instant, the older vampire had one arm around Spike’s torso and the other over his mouth. “Not a sound,” he hissed in Spike’s ear, and the younger vampire went utterly still. With a tilt of his head, Angelus indicated the study, and released him. Since Spike was headed there anyway, he followed.

Angelus poured himself a tumbler of liquor, another for Spike, and the two sat down. “I didn’t want to wake Darla,” Angelus explained unnecessarily, and Spike grinned.

“It’s just as well,” he said. “Since I haven’t had a chance to welcome you back personally myself.”

Angelus came out of a distraction. “What’s that?”

Spike slid off his chair and moved forward to crouch at Angelus’s feet. “Well, Drusilla, lovely as she is, left me a bit unsatisfied,” Spike said coyly. “And I’d wager there are still one or two things Darla can’t…” He licked his lips and laid one palm over Angelus’s cock, feeling it begin to twitch. “*Won’t* do for you,” he amended.

He reached to undo Angelus’s trouser buttons, found his hand yanked away. “Get away from me.” Angelus’s voice was low and furious.

Spike looked up at him in confusion. “Don’t you..?”

“You’re disgusting,” Angelus went on. “You come to me, smelling of smoke and blood and… and… *death,* wanting to pollute yourself…” He stood up, covered his face with one hand. “How can I do this?”

Spike stayed on the floor, stunned, and when Angelus finally dropped his hand, Spike concealed his hurt behind a practiced sneer.

“Fuck you, then,” he said, and fled the room for more private quarters.

The next night Spike killed his first Slayer, and with Angelus’s congratulations he believed things had come back to normal, but by the morning Angelus was gone for good, and Spike’s hurt became resentment.

It would take nearly a century for Spike to learn the context of that meeting, to know that Angelus had already had his soul when he rejoined them in China. It would take a few years longer for him to learn what that meant, the self-loathing that the sight of his “family” only made sharper. But by then, Spike was going slowly mad in a high-school basement and had enough loathing for them both.

\- - - - - 

Spike entered Angel’s empty office, still dark and quiet, though around him the rest of the building had reached its usual mid-morning level of activity. Spike frowned; even when he and Angel lingered in the morning, they were out and down by now.

Spike ran his fingertips along the edge of Angel’s desk, wondering if he should wait, when he heard voices above him. Just for a moment, due to a quirk of vampire hearing or a vagary of the ductwork, Angel and a woman.

“You’re not perfectly happy, are you?” she laughed, and Spike shook his head, bitterly amused.

He stepped back into the hall, leaned against the doorjamb, watched the lawyers come and go, waited for distraction until Angel came for him.


	6. After: Not Fade Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened between Angel and Spike after the series finale.

“Let’s get to work.”

Illyria moved first, all fury and power. Her grief was an inferno, and she plucked a club out of the hand of the first warrior she engaged as delicately as another woman might pluck a flower from a vase. Thus armed, she made quick work of seven others.

Angel, still drunk with Hamilton’s blood, only wished he’d had a few moments to pass some of the elixir to Spike, share some of the advantage. He swung his sword in a wide circle, amazing even himself as three demons dropped, headless, to the ground. He retreated back, went left to impale a crocodile-like demon that was coming in low.

He caught sight of Spike out of the corner of his eye, back-to-back with Gunn, both of them near the wall. Neither was giving ground, but nor did they gain, and then Angel’s attention was taken as the dragon swooped down for an attack.

Its jaws were opened wide, and a scream like a hurricane issued forth. Angel could see a glow like a hot ember in its throat, knew in a moment fire would blaze, and threw his sword like a javelin right at its head. The sword flew unerringly into the dragon’s mouth, pierced the back of its throat, continued through and impaled the brain.

The scream cut off abruptly, and the beast’s wings closed with a convulsive jerk, propelling it backwards to drop onto the advancing army.

Angel heard Spike and Gunn shout in triumph as the creature crushed much of the advancing wave, and then, like the wrecked aircraft it resembled, the combusting fuel in its belly exploded.

The blast wasn’t enormous; it was lucky, not a miracle. But it did topple those closest to it, and the fire slowed the approach enough for Angel to grab a sword from one of the fallen.

Illyria took each demon as it came, each blow an almost effortless kill, and as Angel struck down another demon he was, for the first time, grateful she stood with them.

A horned demon charged forward from the pack, and Angel, still feeling the rush of his earlier feeding, cleaved it in two. Lengthwise. He swung around wide as more creatures advanced, but the unfamiliar weapon overbalanced him, and an ogre was able to attack, but Angel managed to swing back with one hand and spill the brute’s guts onto the concrete.

He saw a line of monsters move toward him, heard Spike shout his name, retreated several steps closer to Illyria.

And then the air above them erupted.

\- - - - -

Spike saw the portal dilate open, like a great, glowing eye. Saw a cloud of enormous winged creatures, part stingray, part bat, mounted with spear-bearing demons.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, but he watched in disbelief as the flying army attacked the advancing troops. 

The ground force, caught completely unaware, fell back in total disarray. Spike saw Angel and Illyria come towards them, still repelling demons too stupid or too determined to abandon their original objective. 

The flying demons engaged the army below with a clash that knocked dozens from both forces to the ground. Still slashing with his sword, Spike shouted to Angel, “what the fucking hell?!”

And behind them, the chain-link fence came down.

\- - - - -

Angel spun around to see four men in body armor holding bolt-cutters. “Who the hell..?” he shouted, before his words were drowned out as a squad of large horsepower motorcycles coursed over the gate and struck into the fray.

A huge silver custom chopper skidded to a halt between the four of them and the greater arena. The bike’s driver raised his mirrored visor, revealing a mere man. “What the hell are you waiting for?” he said. “Run, dummies!” And he spun back, lifting a mace from his side.

Behind the cycles came several hundred more armored men on foot, and they joined the battle, striking out at both air-mounted demons and those in the first army.

“When the man’s right,” Spike said, and he stepped back into the darkened doorway. The other three followed, Angel not even breaking stride as he led the way through the chained kitchen access door with one booted foot.

They walked forward through the gloom, Illyria supporting Gunn now, his rush of adrenalin beginning to ebb. “What the hell happened out there?” Gunn asked.

“Damned if I know,” Spike said.

“There are beds upstairs,” Angel said. “And I think I might still have one or two numbers for healers. I’ll have to promise some favors, but…”

He pushed open the door that led to the lobby, slammed flat into an invisible barrier. The others joined him in the doorway and they all took in what now filled the entire ground floor of the hotel.

It most resembled a field hospital, with bare-bones surgical areas and cots in neat rows. A small squad of workers were still in the process of unloading equipment from large all-terrain vehicles that appeared to have been driven right through the hotel’s double-doors. They moved so quickly and efficiently that it was easy to believe they’d done what had already been set up in the ten minutes or so since the battle had begun. 

The humans seemed to be divided into three groups: soldiers, dressed in a motley array of modern and historical armor and sports’ protection, medical personnel, in hospital scrubs, and a number of men in medieval priests’ robes, who appeared to be casting some sort of protective ward.

In the few seconds it took for them to take this in, their presence had been noted by all present, and they found themselves the object of a few dozen surprised and confused stares.

“This protective spell is useless,” Illyria said, touching one hand to the barrier. “I will disperse its power.”

“Don’t do that,” Angel said quickly.

Illyria cocked her head. “Why not?”

“Because we might need the good doctors’ help,” Angel explained patiently through clenched teeth. “And we don’t want to irritate them by dispersing their spells.” 

Illyria turned back to the lobby, regarded the group curiously. A few stepped back under her intense stare.

Angel brought Gunn forward. “Our friend has been badly wounded,” he said. “Can you help him?”

There was a long, tense pause, and Angel moved Gunn’s coat aside, showing the blood. “Please,” Angel pleaded. After a moment one of the doctors came forward and reached out.

“What is your name, son?” he asked.

“Charles Gunn.”

“Come in, Charles, if you be a righteous man.”

“Silas, no,” one of the priests shouted, but Gunn stepped into the lobby and allowed himself to be helped towards the surgery. The priest pointed to Angel and the others. “Come no further,” he warned, “or invoke the wrath…”

“Give it a rest, Martin,” the doctor said wearily, giving the priest’s name the French inflection, “Mar-tan.”

“We won’t come any further,” angel said, trying to ignore Spike’s sneer and Illyria’s inscrutable stare. “Thank you for your help. And by the way… don’t mess up my hotel too much.” Angel turned from the door, walked back to the mess sink, pulled a towel from the shelf above. He cranked the water on, turned back to the doorway.

Illyria stood still at the threshold staring intently out at the goings-on. Spike had retreated to lean against the wall, keep one eye on things as he fished for his cigarettes. “Spike,” Angel said, and the younger vampire looked up.

“Come here,” Angel said, and he soaked the towel under the water.

Spike approached. Angel wrung the towel and hung it over the side of the sink. “You’ve been hurt,” Angel said.

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of that going around,” Spike said, but he slid out of his coat and tossed it back on the counter. Angel took Spike’s face in one hand and gently worked at the blood with the towel, stopping frequently to rinse it out.

Spike thought he should make some protest, tell Angel he could take care of himself, but he found himself made mute by this simple act. That Angel took his time, was so careful that he should not feel the slightest pain, did more to reaffirm what Spike had feared he had lost in the previous days than any words. Spike let his eyes drop closed, letting himself think of nothing but Angel’s hands.

When Angel reached his torso and began to squeeze water into his wounds to worry the fabric carefully away from where it stuck to the ragged flesh, the first tears tumbled down Spike’s cheeks. 

“Am I hurting you?” Angel asked, and it was at Spike’s tongue to tell him that it seemed at last that Angel had stopped hurting him. 

But instead he said, “it’s just all too much.”

And they both heard the very human William in those words. 

“I know,” Angel said, and he pulled Spike into his arms, gingerly, and Spike allowed himself to weep.

It only lasted a few minutes, a few broken sobs, a few tears wiped hastily away, and when Angel released Spike, he kissed him on the forehead.

Spike looked up, his eyes still filled with confusion and grief, but he leaned forward, caught Angel’s mouth with his own. The kiss was gentle, and brief, and after a moment Angel pulled away, looked down into Spike’s face.

“Never send me away again,” Spike said, and Angel gave him a sad smile.

“Never,” he avowed, then turned back to the sink. He scrubbed his face quickly, taking none of the care he had with Spike, nor did he let Spike remove his shirt, causing the younger vampire to imagine a mass of crushed bone and black-bruised flesh beneath, which was not too far from the truth.

“How do you think the battle’s going?” Spike asked, glancing towards the exterior door.

“I can’t even begin to guess,” Angel said.

“The spell that opened the portal will break at sunrise,” Spike said. “Even under the best of circumstances it would be difficult to replicate. If they’ve taken a lot of casualties…”

Angel covered his eyes with one hand. “I can’t even think about that,” he said. He took Spike’s hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s see how Gunn is doing.”

Illyria looked over as they approached, noticed the clasped hands with her odd mix of curiosity and incomprehension. “They have repaired him,” she announced. “Now they are putting blood into him through a tube.”

“Have to see if they can spare a few pints,” Spike said, and he and Angel looked through the doorway. 

In the lobby, every bed was filled with soldiers. The lucky ones had lost consciousness; the rest moaned and cried in pain. The doctors worked feverishly, stitching and binding wounds, even as the soldiers’ blood ran into pools on the marble floor. Not far away, others waited, some laid on the bare floor. In the far corner, the dead were stacked like cordwood, the bottom wrapped in sheets, but most denied even this small dignity. 

“Such senseless activity,” Illyria said. “Preserving what will soon be gone.”

Angel swung the door closed.


	7. After: Transit of Venus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post- Series Finale. Angel and Spike deal with the world after the fall of Wolfram and Hart.

The kitchen door hissed as it opened, and Angel and Spike, asleep in one another’s arms on the counter, came instantly awake. Their eyes looked first at the window near the ceiling, saw daylight, then looked towards the door. The doctor who had taken Gunn, Silas, poked his head in and looked around.

The first one he saw was Illyria, perched on a butcher block, motionless, and he started at the sight of her.

“She won’t bite,” Spike said, not moving from where he rested on Angel’s chest, and the doctor started again, turning towards the two vampires. “She’ll beat your brains in soon as look at you,” Spike went on. “But you’re safe from biting.”

“What… is she?” Silas asked.

“Her name is Illyria,” Angel said quietly.

“Once this world trembled before me,” Illyria announced. “Now I have been reduced to a mere shadow of what I once was.”

In a graceful movement, Spike was up, off the counter, and standing to face the doctor. “She’ll go on like that for hours, if you let her,” he said. “Lots of clichéd evil overlord banter. All ‘omnipotent’ this, and ‘worshiped for eons’ that.”

“You are a maggot,” Illyria said. “Once you would have died for even thinking such things.”

“See what I mean?” Spike said with a smirk.

Silas turned to Angel, who was pulling on his boots. His expression said he was clearly hoping Angel was the helpful one in the group. “And the two of you are vampires, I take it.”

“Right in one,” Spike said. “Give the man a kewpie doll.”

Illyria cocked her head. “…Kewpie..?”

“We are,” Angel confirmed. “I’m Angel and this is Spike.”

“I’m his boyfriend,” Spike said cheerily, earning him an exasperated look from Angel.

“Well… I, uh, had rather… assumed,” the doctor said faintly, and his flustered manner so reminded Angel of Wesley that he ached with it. 

“How is our friend?” Angel asked, hoping for distraction, and mercifully the doctor came back to himself.

“Recovering,” Silas said. “Unfortunately, he’s lost a lot of blood, which we’re in rather short supply of.” Spike gave Angel a disappointed look over the doctor’s shoulder, and Angel was grateful he stood behind his back. “The priests are using healing spells, though, left and right, and we expect to be on our way by nightfall.”

That got Spike’s attention. “On your way where?” he demanded. “Who are you guys anyway? And what have you got to do with Wolfram and Hart?”

“All excellent questions,” Angel said levelly, “and when you’ve answered those, I have more.”

”I might ask the same of you,” Silas shot back. “Rather strange how you just walked into a warded building from the middle of a battle.”

“Yeah, about that,” Angel said. “I own this hotel.”

“You do?” The doctor’s brow furrowed. “We understood this was owned by Wolfram and Hart. Which as of about twelve hours ago became a rather impressive pile of rubble.”

“Well, I…” Angel looked over at Spike, who shrugged.

“That’s on you, mate,” he said.

“I’m the one who did that,” Angel said. “But before I decided to take out the senior partners, I was the head of the L.A. branch.”

Silas seemed physically shaken by this news, and Spike moved in closer. “Your turn,” he said.

The doctor looked at the vampires nervously, then drew himself up and began. “We are the Order of St. Michael,” he said.

Now it was Spike’s turn to look confused. “I thought the pope disbanded you guys during the Spanish Inquisition..” At Angel’s look of surprise, he added, “not all of us were Irish peasants.”

“Because we disagreed with him,” Silas said earnestly. “Rome decreed that those who did not conform were our enemies, but we had battled against real evil. We knew the difference between a hell-beast and a village herb woman.”

“So you continued all this time in secret,” Angel surmised.

“Not so secret,” Silas admitted. “After the Reformation we were invited back to carry out missions for the Vatican. On a strictly informal basis, of course.”

“Is that what this was?” Spike asked. “Take out Wolfram and Hart for His Holiness?”

Silas gave them a grin that was startling in its bloodthirstiness. “Oh, no,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for the chink in their armor for a very long time. We never thought it would come from inside. We are in your debt.”

“Well, we thought we’d be dead by now, so let’s call it even,” Spike said.

“What about the other demons?” Angel said. “The flying ones.”

“I don’t know their name,” Silas said, “but they have long coveted Wolfram and Hart’s power, like many others.” He grinned again. “I fear the senior partners will be far too busy for further schemes for quite some time.”

“Score one for us,” Spike said.

“Many others,” Angel repeated. “How many others?”

“I’ve no idea,” Silas said. “Hundreds of orders and tribes, I expect.”

“Hundreds!” Spike was shocked.

“Wolfram and Hart has made many enemies,” Silas said. “And many of them can be very patient.”

“It’s gonna be chaos,” Angel said. 

“It is the nature of things to fall to chaos,” Illyria said. “Order comes only with great effort.”

Angel spared her a glare, then turned back to the doctor. “I need to see my friend,” he said. “I need to know that he’s well and plan our next step.”

Spike glanced toward the ceiling. “A hot shower wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Silas looked uncertain. “I need to speak to the priests,” he said.

“Do that,” Angel said. “And not to get petty, but it is my house.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Silas said, and he headed back towards the lobby. 

Angel and Spike followed as far as the doorway to observe the activity. Things seemed to be more organized than the previous night; the dead had been removed, it wasn’t immediately apparent where. The wounded had all been stitched up, their wounds carefully bound, and they rested in row after row of cots. Priests and doctors moved among them, offering comfort and kind words.

They were able to spot Gunn, awake and half-propped up, speaking to a nurse who was attending to the dressings that wrapped his torso. They then followed Silas’s progress as he took aside one of the priests, and then led the way to Gunn’s bed. 

They exchanged words, and Gunn turned towards the kitchen, raised one hand in an attempt to dismiss Angel’s fears, then turned back to a discussion with the priest that went on for several minutes. 

“What do you expect they’re talking about?” Spike asked. 

“‘What are vampires doing here? How soon can we get the vampires to leave?’” Angel guessed. 

Illyria stepped up beside them. “The one called ‘Father’ is insisting Gunn take something called ‘the host’ before he speaks with you,” she said.

“You can hear them from here?” Spike was surprised.

“Damn, he’s clever,” Angel murmured. “I’m glad he’s on our side.”

“More or less,” Spike amended.

At Gunn’s bedside, an agreement was reached, and the priest produced a silver box from somewhere in his robes. He sat on the edge of the bed, opened it, placed a wafer on Gunn’s tongue, and tipped a small flask to his lips. Silas helped Gunn to his feet and slowly lead him to the doorway.

Gunn reached to take Angel’s hand. “I’m okay,” he said, but Angel and Spike both shrank back.

“What’s wrong?” Gunn asked, leaning again on Silas’s arm.

“It’s the host,” Angel said. “You’ll burn us if we touch you.”

“God damn,” Gunn said. “How long does it last?”

“Until you commit a sin,” Silas said, rolling his eyes. “Congratulations. You lasted all of a minute and a half.”

“Thanks for the timely blasphemy,” Spike said, stepping forward again. He and Angel reached out for Gunn and led him to one of the kitchen chairs, Silas close behind.

“How do you feel?” Angel said, giving a cursory examination of Gunn’s bandages. 

“I’ve had worse,” Gunn said.

Angel glanced at Silas, who gave a curt nod. “We need to decide what we’re doing next,” Angel said. “There may be hundreds of groups trying to fill the void left by Wolfram and Hart. We don’t… we don’t have prophecies to guide us now, and…” Angel’s voice broke a little. “And we don’t have Wesley to help us anymore.” Spike put one hand on Angel’s back, and Angel took a breath and began again. “But I believe we’re still in a position to influence events for the better.”

“I agree,” Gunn said, and he looked to Silas himself. “And that’s why I’m joining the order of St. Michael. I talked to Father Martin last night. And it will be better for you without me. You won’t have to wait for me.”

“I never thought that,” Angel said.

“I know you didn’t,” Gunn said. “But I want to do this. I think this is my place, now.”

“Sometimes you just know,” Spike said.

“I get that,” Angel said.

“I’m sorry I’m letting you down,” Gunn said.

“You’re not,” Angel told him. “I’ll miss you, but I don’t doubt the order has its own part to play.”

“We do,” Silas affirmed. “And we will.”

Gunn looked back towards the lobby. “We’ll be gone in a few hours,” he said.

Angel said nothing, and Spike gave him a reassuring pat.

\- - - - -

Angel, Spike, and Illyria watched as the Order mobilized. Amid the activity of moving wounded and equipment, Gunn was on one knee, taking the oath and receiving the emblem of his service. Angel had to admit he wore it more comfortably than any since his sister’s death.

By the time darkness fell, the lobby was empty, a shattered door-lock the only sign that they were ever there. The wards collapsed as the last man crossed the threshold, and the three supernatural beings entered the hotel proper.

Illyria quickly retreated to the cave-like inner office with its sliding door, and began her descent into the semi-trance state that served as both sleep and sustenance, while Spike led Angel, in a trance state all his own, upstairs to the bedrooms.

He found what he took to be Angel’s former quarters, looking very neglected, and settled Angel on the bed against his token protests, while he explored the other rooms for things they might need. He was grateful for the acute sense of smell and hunter’s instinct that helped him find a few odd towels, nearly empty bottles of shampoo, and soap.

He retuned to find Angel leaning on his knees, head in hands. He walked past to the bathroom and dropped the things in the sink, returned to Angel’s side.

“I got soap and whatnot,” he said. “You can take a shower if there’s hot water.”

Angel looked up, refusing to indulge himself in a good brood as though by force of will. “There should be,” he said. “They got the electricity on, so…” He trailed off and dragged himself to his feet. “I won’t be long,” he said.

“Take your time,” Spike said. “I may join you in a bit.” He was pleased to see this remark made Angel smile, a small one without much mirth, but there. “Go on then,” he prompted, and Angel withdrew.

The ancient fluorescent light gave the old black-and-white bathroom a strange greenish cast. Angel turned on the taps, heard the pipes deep in the old building rattle and complain before giving up a few spurts of mud-colored water and then beginning to run. Angel stripped out of his clothes, examined the healing bruises around his torso, livid in the harsh illumination, checked the shower to find a tepid but serviceable stream, and stepped in. 

He rubbed the gritty, cracked sliver that Spike had found roughly over his skin, recognized the milk and almond scent that Cordelia had favored when she’d lived at the hotel, and felt the sorrow at her passing press out against his ribcage. Something cracked inside him, and he drew a breath to steady himself as his hands started shaking.

And then the world went white.

The vision exploded behind his eyes, and images pummeled his brain. They came towards him, leaving him no escape, as though he stood at the bottom of a narrow shaft while rocks were rained down over him.

He came out of it crumpled on the floor of the shower. Spike, still dressed as the water streamed over him, looked down worriedly.

“Jesus,” he swore as Angel’s eyes opened. “What the hell happened?”

Angel tried to push himself up, felt his arms like rubber, and lay back down. “Vision,” he said. “There’s another clash coming. A demon god is going to open a portal and send his followers through.”

Spike turned off the water, dragged Angel to a sitting position and began to dry him with a towel. “So what’s that have to do with us?” he said.

Angel gave him an incredulous stare. “We can’t let that portal open,” he said. “Even if the demons don’t ultimately take control, they’ll murder hundreds of thousands in the process.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Well, hell,” he said cheerily, “we can‘t have that. What do we need to do?”

“Destroy at least one of the three crystals that will be used to focus the portal,” Angel said. He pounded one fist against the tile wall. “Damn it! I thought I was done with these visions!”

Spike touched his cheek and gave him a sympathetic look. “Not your luck, pet,” he said. “Good thing for you I’ve got experience taking care of crazy clairvoyants.” He helped Angel to his feet, steered him towards the bedroom. “So what’s our timeframe?”

“Five days,” Angel said miserably. “But they’re in Montana.”

“Not a problem,” Spike said. “We’ll get a good day’s rest, I’ll get us a car tomorrow night. Now you lay down, let me shower proper, I’ll be back to take care of you in two shakes.”

Angel caught Spike’s hand, held him until he turned his attention back. “They’ll be looking for us,” Angel said. “Anyone who thinks we might be against them…”

“I.e., everyone,” Spike muttered.

“We aren’t exactly inconspicuous, Spike,” Angel finished.

Spike shook his head. “We have plenty of time to work on that,” he said. “Sleep now. Fight later.”

Ten minutes later Spike was clean, dried, and slipping in beside a restless Angel. He was pleased to note that his skin against Angel’s seemed to relax the older vampire, and he chanced a kiss on the back of Angel’s neck.

“That’s nice,” Angel murmured, and Spike kissed him again.

\- - - - -

Angel woke the next day alone, but with the covers nested around him as he’d always tucked in Spike. He found his clothes and made his way downstairs. He could see Spike with Illyria in his old office, heard Spike’s deep voice.

“Still too much like her,” Spike was saying. “Do it shorter, darker. More, almost black. Now the eyes, they have to be a color found in nature. Try a grayish-blue. And darker lashes, like Angel’s.”

Angel approached the doorway very slowly, wanting to see what Spike was up to unobserved, himself. He found Spike leaning on the desk, directing Illyria to alter her own appearance. She was still slight and long-limbed, but she looked less like a graduate student and more like the vampire wanna-bes who hung around outside the malls wearing black PVC clothes and smoking clove cigarettes.

In fact, with her bobbed and banged hair it struck Angel that she looked like a modern Goth-kid version of Louise Brooks. 

“Nice job,” Angel said quietly when the transformation seemed complete, and Spike gave him a look of barely-concealed pride. 

“I saw ‘Beggars of Life’ about twenty times,” he said fondly.

“This haircut irritates me,” Illyria said.

“Really? I think it’s very flattering,” Spike soothed. “And if we don’t want every demon in existence with a petty grudge or delusions of godhood…”

“Let them come,” Illyria said. “I would welcome the chance to crush their petty…”

“Yeah, well, we wouldn’t,” Spike interrupted, turning his back on her. “And when the two of us are dust, who are you gonna have to listen to all your tales of the good old days?”

Illyria shut her mouth and gave Spike a confused glare. “I despise this reliance on lesser beings,” she said.

“Suck it up,” Spike told her.

“Much as I hate to interrupt,” Angel said, “we need to get on the road tonight, and you and I, Spike, still need to disguise ourselves.”

“What’d you have in mind?” Spike said. “Dark glasses?”

Angel looked slightly pained, but pressed on. “You need to get rid of your hair,” he said.

He’d been expecting a fight over this, at the very least screams of outrage, but Spike merely gave a resigned shrug. “I know,” he said. “Not looking forward to the dishwater blond again, but…” He gave Angel a thoughtful look. “You need to change, too,” he said.

Angel patted his hair self-consciously; it was still in disarray from being slept on wet. “I was going to comb it flat,” he said.

“No, real change,” Spike said. He glanced past Angel at the afternoon light streaming in the windows. “I’ll go to the drugstore,” he said, “and I need to hit a butcher-shop, too. You’ve tunnels here. Tell me how to go.”

Angel nodded, led him to the basement.

\- - - - -

Spike was back within an hour, found Angel sorting seemingly random items of clothing on the bed, an inadequately small pile of other supplies on the dresser. Angel looked up as Spike came in.

“I found Gunn’s old electric clippers,” Angel said. “They still work. Should do a good job.”

“I should get started, then.”

“No,” Angel said, leaving his sorting. “We’ll eat first, then I want to do it.”

Spike grinned slowly. “Good,” he said. “’Cause I’ve got plans for your hair, too.”

Angel crossed to the kitchenette, took down and rinsed two tall glasses. Spike joined him and unpacked the plastic containers filled with animal blood, poured it into the glasses. They sat opposite each other, clinked glasses, and drank deep.

Spike’s face had taken on the demon aspect when he set the empty glass down, poured out more. “God, I’m starving,” he said around jagged fangs. “Even this crap tastes good.”

“Come on,” Angel said when the blood was gone, and Spike followed him into the bath. He snapped the “2” attachment onto the electric clippers, started running them through Spike’s hair.

Handfuls of bleached locks came off into Angel’s hand, and Spike noted he collected it all in a Ziploc baggie. “You’re a sentimental old fool,” Spike told him, but there was no anger in it.

“Humor me,” Angel said, taking off the last of Spike’s hair and transferring the bag to the pocket of the khaki cargo pants that he wore. He rubbed a palm over the soft velvet nap that covered Spike’s scalp, pained at how vulnerable his… lover? Offspring? Something else, maybe? How vulnerable *Spike* looked, he revised in his head.

“Rub the Buddha for luck,” Spike said with forced gaiety before jumping up. “Your turn,” he said. “Get your kit off and sit down.”

He fetched the drugstore bag from the kitchen, came back to find Angel staring at him. “Take off your shirt,” Spike said deliberately.

Angel smirked, lifted his t-shirt over his head.

“Pants, too,” Spike said, rolling his eyes.

“I usually prefer my seduction a little more subtle,” Angel said, dropping his trousers and sitting down.

“Think of it as Irish foreplay,” Spike said, giving Angel his most charming grin and pulling a bleach kit out of the bag.

Angel shook his head, laughed. “This is revenge for all the times I made fun of you, isn’t it?”

“No, not really,” Spike said, mixing together the bleach and peroxide. “For starters, your hair’s too dark to get as blond as mine… was. We’re just going for a sun-streaked look. Divert the casual observer from considering you never actually get real sun.” He slid a comb through the solution, straddled Angel’s lap and began working it through his hair.

“You sound like an expert.”

After thirty years of DIY, I damn well better be.” Quickly, efficiently, he tossed the bleaching mixture through Angel’s locks, until, satisfied, he stepped back and pulled bottles of shampoo and conditioner out of the bag. “Get in the shower, wash really well and use a lot of conditioner.” 

Angel caught Spike’s wrist. “Join me.”

Spike smiled. “Okay,” he said.

Spike washed Angel’s hair for him, his long fingers pulling through the strands, and Angel was content to stand still and let him do it. When Spike had completed this task, he turned Angel toward him, tipped his head and kissed him, gently, almost shyly, over and over.

After a moment, he tasted salt in the drops of water on Angel’s lips. 

Spike pulled back. “Angel,” he whispered.

Angel cradled Spike’s face in his hands. “You’re all I have left,” he said.

“Angel, I…”

“Don’t.” Angel touched Spike’s lips to quiet him. “You’re more than I hoped for. More than I deserve.” He reached past Spike, shut off the water. “It’s dark now. Time to go.”

\- - - - -

Spike took the clothes Angel handed him and gave them a dubious look. “Where’d these come from?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“They aren’t really my style.”

“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? And, anyway,” he held up an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt, “I’m wearing this.”

“Gag gift?”

“Undercover work.”

They dressed quickly and Angel ran his hands through his drying hair. “How do I look?”

Spike smiled. “Almost forgot,” he said, going through the drugstore bag again, pulling out a one-time use Polaroid, and snapping Angel’s picture.

“Give me that,” Angel growled, and Spike tossed it to him with a laugh, posing with his hands on his hips as Angel shot him. They both watched as the pictures developed. 

Angel examined the photo of himself: flowered shirt, rumpled khakis, streaky golden-brown hair. “The hair looks good,” he said. “The rest…” he gave a dramatic shudder.

Spike looked at his own photo, the severe crew-cut, white t-shirt and faded overalls, and was even more blunt in his assessment. “I look like trade,” he said.

Angel took the photos, placed them in his pocket with the bag of hair, then turned and began shoving items judiciously into a gym bag: towels, two blankets, sweats and tees. “We can get whatever else we need on the road,” he said.

Spike frowned. “Just the one bag?”

“Illyria’s carrying the weapons,” Angel said. “Your bag is over by the door.”

Spike looked over, saw the denim backpack, picked it up and unzipped it. Inside was Wesley’s “book of all books” and stack after stack of cash, neatly bound.

“Bugger me,” Spike breathed. “How much is here?”

Angel rubbed his forehead, distracted. “I’m not sure. I’ve been hiding it around the hotel, you know, in case. A few hundred thousand? Maybe?”

“Bugger me,” Spike repeated.

“It won’t be enough,” Angel said, zipping the gym bag closed and pushing past Spike, who shouldered his own bag and followed.

Illyria was waiting in the lobby, a pack filled with their swords and the few weapons that remained in the hotel across her back. Angel noticed, with grim amusement, that her sullen expression suited her new Goth-girl look. 

“I am prepared,” she said.

“Good,” Angel told her. He turned to Spike, who was crossing the marble floor. “We need to get a car.”

“Not a problem,” Spike said. “I spotted a few good prospects the other night. You want power or speed?”

And Angel pulled the door shut behind them as they left.


	8. After: Summer Solstice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel, Spike, and Illyria are on the run and dealing with new Demonic threats. They also learn about some new allies.

Spike watched the afternoon sun slant across the motel parking lot as he stood smoking in the doorway. The sun would set soon, and they could get on their way, though neither he nor Angel was sure exactly where. The vision, as usual, had been frustratingly vague, only a town name, Aston, and the image of a weather-beaten barn with black doors. Having spent much of the last three nights driving past way too many weather-beaten barns for Spike’s taste, he had the feeling things would not be so simple.

He blew out a stream of smoke and was irritated by its failure to quickly dissipate in the muggy air. For all its faults, he thought, at least LA had low humidity.

He glanced back into the room, saw Illyria sitting cross-legged on the near bed watching the pictures blink on the silent TV screen. Angel was sprawled on the far bed, his sleep restless, as it had been each day since his most recent vision.

Spike took another draw on his cigarette, watched two cars pull in off the interstate. Night was coming. Time to get moving.

Angel whimpered slightly in his sleep; Spike flicked his cigarette away and turned back inside, swinging the door shut. He slid into the bed, put his arms around Angel’s chest. “Wake up,” he whispered, and Angel’s eyes fluttered open.

He looked over at Spike and gave a relieved sigh, put his arms around Spike, hugged him tightly. “Bad one?” Spike said.

“Bad enough,” Angel answered. “But once we get this done, they’ll stop.”

“Until the next time,” Spike said, his voice low, angry.

“Shh,” Angel soothed. “It’s what we do.”

“Well… can’t they find a way to jerk us around without tormenting someone?”

Angel chuckled. “You would think,” he said.

Illyria stood and snapped off the TV. “I grow restless,” she said. “I wish to be done with these motels.”

“You and me, both, sister,” Spike said, standing himself and holding out a hand for Angel. “The sun’s going down. Enough time to get ready before it’s dark.”

\- - - - -

Spike drove, and less than an hour later they were passing a sign declaring, “Welcome to Aston.”

“Keep your eyes open,” Angel said. “It’s a barn with black doors.”

Spike peered into the darkness beyond the road. “Good luck,” he said. “I can’t even see if there are buildings.”

Four minutes later they passed another sign: “Thank You for Visiting Aston. God Speed and Come Back Soon.”

Spike hit the brakes, spinning the car 180 degrees and ending up facing back the way they’d come. “Did you see anything?”

Angel shook his head, and Spike began driving much more slowly. 

“There’s one,” Illyria said.

“Black doors?” Angel asked. 

There was a moment of silence. “I can’t tell,” Illyria admitted. 

Spike pulled onto the shoulder, threw the car into park, opened the door. “If I step in cow shit,” he said, “I’m going to kick somebody’s ass.”

\- - - - -

Three hours and five weather-beaten barns later, Spike was ready to rip every citizen of Aston into tiny bits. “How many fucking barns can there be in this fucking armpit?” he complained, punctuating each word with a stomped foot. “I mean, the fucking powers that…”

He came up short against Angel’s outstretched hand, looked up to see a huge man in checked shirt, ostrich boots, and ten-gallon hat leaning against the car. “Shit,” Spike swore under his breath.

“Evening, boys, ma’am,” the man said, touching the brim of his hat. Illyria and the two vampires said nothing, though Spike was mentally reviewing every Burt Reynolds movie he’d ever seen.

“I understand,” the man went on, “you’re looking for some portal-opening crystals.”

\- - - - -

“How did you know?” Angel asked when they were all on their way down a gravel road that none of them had seen the first two times past. 

“Got an email,” the man, Clint, said.

“From who?” Spike said. “The psychic friends network?”

Clint chuckled. “Something like that,” he said. “Pull over near that mailbox.”

Angel did, and turned off the car. Out in the still darkness, they could see the patch of starlessness against the horizon that they now knew indicated a barn. And just barely, a green glow emanated from where they knew the doors would be.

“There she is,” Clint said.

“Let’s suit up,” Angel said.

They came in through the back, weaving through the deserted animal pens on the lowest level. Above them there was the sound of people moving around, and low, indistinct chanting.

Angel hefted his sword in his hand, led the way up the stairs, praying the activity above would cover the creaks that came on each step. At the door he waited for Spike and Illyria to come in close behind him, then kicked it open.

The room was large, the ceiling lost in the darkness above. Around a painted circle Angel recognized from his vision stood a dozen men in robes. Two held tall glowing crystals and all faced a black-skinned demon who held a third.

Illyria and the vampires charged, slashing at the robes priests, who, at the attack, produced swords of their own. Spike toppled one who bore a crystal, but when he brought down the pommel to shatter it, the stone vanished in a puff of smoke.

Illyria, who was watching, dispatched the other, and that stone, too, evaporated. All three turned towards the final stone.

The demon who carried it now hovered roughly ten feet in the air, was laughing as the last robed followers were felled.

“So, what should I say?” the demon said. “Some standard evil-doer’s line? ‘Curses, foiled again?’ “You may have beaten me this time, Dark Avenger..?’ ‘I’d have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you meddling kids?’”

“How about ‘I surrender?’” Angel said.

“A little begging for mercy would be nice,” Spike added.

The demon gave a raspy laugh. “And Illyria. What a surprise to see you here.”

Spike cocked his head. “You know her?”

“Who doesn’t,” the demon said. “I’d have thought you’d use this opportunity to your own gain, Illyria.”

“I follow my own path,” Illyria said.

“Hmm,” the demon nodded. “Well, enough of the chit-chat. I’ve a portal to open, and then the hordes of…”

It was cut short as an axe thrown by Illyria struck its shoulder. Angel and Spike leaped into the air towards it, Spike slashing open the demon’s leg, and Angel grabbing its neck and holding on. They spun through the air wildly, finally striking the floor. The two vampires attacked with swords, hacking through the demon’s think, leathery skin as it twisted madly in an effort to escape. 

It screamed, “No!” and Angel turned to see Illyria had retrieved the remaining crystal, and was preparing to shatter it. At the demon’s cry, she hesitated.

“Do it,” Angel shouted, and with a glance in his direction, she did. 

It exploded with a force that knocked them all off their feet, and a blast of heat so intense, Spike thought he must surely be burning, but then it was gone, and they were plunged into darkness.

Nearby, they heard the choking gurgle as the demon breathed its last.

\- - - - - 

“Are you okay?” Angel asked Spike as they limped behind Illyria towards the car. 

“’Course I’m okay,” Spike said, irritated. After a moment, though, he said, “you?”

“I’ll live,” Angel said.

Clint was still as they’d left him, leaning against the trunk, ankles crossed. “Y’all take care of business?” he called.

“The crystal has been destroyed,” Illyria replied.

“All right, then,” Clint said, grinning. “Now, y’all are more than welcome to come back to my place, have some of my wife’s buttermilk pancakes and get some rest before you’re moving on.”

“Clint, that sounds like heaven,” Angel said.

Clint came around the car, shouldered past Angel to take the door handle. “Let me drive,” he said.

Angel shrugged, got into the back seat instead, but when Illyria tried to get in from the other side, Spike elbowed her towards the front and joined him.

“I’m a cattle rancher,” Clint said when they were once more underway. “When I’m not driving folks around after demons, that is. We’ll see if we can’t get you boys a breakfast more to your liking.”

Angel sighed and let his head drop back. He felt Spike’s hand rest against it, fingers threading through his hair.

\- - - - -

Clint’s wife, Charlene, was also straight out of central casting, in her calico housedress and white apron, red hair in a braid against her neck. But her eyes were sharply intelligent, and she watched her guests keenly as they filed into her kitchen.

“Why don’t you two boys come out back to the barn,” Clint said, and Angel and Spike followed him.

Illyria and Charlene regarded one another silently across the oak table. “Can I get you some coffee?” Charlene said at last. 

“I do not take sustenance,” Illyria told her.

Charlene shook her head. “We’re off to a great start,” she said.

\- - - - -

The vampires followed Clint down the dim passage between the cattle pens. “Most of the herd’s out on the range,” he said. “But when I heard you were coming, I brought in a few.” They had stopped in front of a large pen where four steer shuffled around in the straw.

“Er, not to be ungrateful,” Spike said, “but those blighters have to weigh a few thousand pounds. We can’t just grab ’em and latch on.”

“Just hang on,” Clint said, entering the pen. He waved one hand in the direction of the nearest animal, drawing its eye.. When it looked at him, its eyes widened, and with a stiff-legged gait, it followed Clint out. Still holding the steer’s gaze, Clint closed the pen gate, then took the animal’s head in his hands. At his touch, the steer’s eyes closed, its jaw went slack, and Clint released its head.

“Amazing,” Angel breathed.

Clint extracted a pointed metal tool from his pocket. “Who’s first up to the bar?” he said, and Angel nodded at Spike. Clint pierced the steer’s fleshy neck, and blood immediately began to flow. With only the smallest hesitation, Spike crouched beside the steer and drank deep. 

Angel watched Spike feed, the vampiric ridges marring Spike’s handsome features almost immediately, then he glanced at Clint, who was watching him. They regarded one another in silence, the only sound in the barn Spike’s rhythmic sucking.

After a few minutes, Spike withdrew, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, and Angel looked at Clint a moment longer before bending his own mouth to the steer’s open vein. 

Spike stepped forward to put himself between Angel and the rancher, carefully watched Clint’s mouth instead of his eyes. After a moment, Clint chuckled. “Don’t get yourself worked into a lather, vampire,” he said. “My talent only works on animals.”

Angel stood, his lips still wet. “I’m done,” he announced.

Calmly, Clint reached into his other pocket and pulled out a wad of cotton and a bandage. He packed the steer’s wound and led it away to another pen.

\- - - - -

When they returned to the kitchen, Charlene was calmly instructing Illyria in the preparation of pancakes, and the former elder god watched her with avid interest. Spike drifted over to join them, and offered to help. Charlene set him to squeezing orange juice.

Clint caught Angel’s eye, nodded at the front porch, and the two men stepped back into the pre-dawn air. “I know you’ve got questions,” Clint said. “Now’s the time to ask them.”

Angel looked out into the fields. “How do you know who we are?” he said.

“Told you that,” Clint said. “Got an email.”

Angel turned towards him. “You offered to answer my questions,” he said.

“You’re right. Sorry,” Clint said. “I don’t know how much you know about the internet…”

“Not much,” Angel admitted. “Computers were about two hundred years after my time.”

Clint nodded. “You saw me with the steer,” he said. “I’ve had that talent most of my life, the ability to mesmerize animals like that. My mother had it, so did my grandfather. About five years back Charlene got the computer to help run the ranch, check cattle prices, follow the news, stuff like that. I didn’t pay it much mind until she decided to look for information about my particular gift. Then she found a group called the Quadrivium Society.”

Angel repeated the strange word: “Quadrivium.”

“Psychics, witches, mystics, a few half-demons. All of us with talents of various sorts.”

“A magic club,” Angel said.

“More of a magic coffee klatch,” Clint corrected. “Maybe not even that formal. Mostly we just post stuff about our jobs and our kids. But there are some very powerful talents there.” He paced the length of the porch. “Two days ago there was a post from someone called Captain Crewe. Gave a quick update on you and told us you might need some help.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Never saw him before,” Clint admitted. “Could be anyone. Clairvoyant, maybe. Remote seer. Even someone who had inside information. Not even a man, necessarily. But one of the gals who runs the board vouched for him, and, well, here you are.”

“Here we are,” Angel agreed.

Clint put a hand on Angel’s elbow. “We’re good people, Angel, and we’re going to help you.”

Angel let out a breath he didn’t remember taking. “I appreciate it,” he said. “We’d never have found that barn without your help.”

“Well I appreciate you stopping a bunch of evil things from eating my town,” Clint said. “Now let’s go in before Charlene chews me out for letting you get burned up.”

\- - - - - 

They came back into the kitchen and Angel watched, amused, as Spike took dishes from Charlene and carried them to the table, then ate more pancakes than any of them, blotting up every drop of maple syrup.

After breakfast, Clint took a thermos of coffee and left to tend to his work. Charlene showed the vampires to the spare bedroom where the windows had been carefully masked with cardboard and heavy drapes. She left them there and they heard Illyria ask if she might spend the day with Charlene. The woman laughed, said it was fine with her, but Illyria should expect to be set to work. Then the back screen door slammed.

Spike put his arms around Angel, pushing him back on the bed before the female voices had faded.

Angel resisted. “Spike, we can’t.”

“Shut up,” Spike said. “I just…” He pressed his lips to Angel’s, fierce, almost desperate. “I need this. Need you.”

Angel glanced towards the shuttered window, heard Charlene and Illyria retreating further away. “Okay,” he said.

Spike pulled away, began to strip off his clothes. Angel did, too, but had only just removed his boots when Spike bounded naked onto the bed. Spike reached over, pulled Angel’s shirt over his head without undoing the buttons.

“Don’t think, Angel,” he said. “Just lose yourself, be a mindless bundle of animal wants.”

“How romantic,” Angel said. “I can see why you wanted to be a poet.”

“Shut up,” Spike said. He knelt on the bed, bent and grasped the spindles on the old-fashioned headboard. Angel stared for a moment, then he did lose himself.

\- - - - -

Later, they dozed, the humid warmth of the day giving their undead flesh the illusion of life. Then, as evening came, Spike woke slowly. He smiled to himself as he realized Angel had slept sound and still: No nightmares, no restlessness.

He kissed Angel’s shoulder, his throat, murmured wordless endearments into his skin, and the other vampire woke with a smile of his own.

“Mmm, that was nice,” he sighed.

Spike looked offended. “Nice?” he repeated. “I practically dislocate several joints and all you can say is ‘nice?’”

Angel chuckled, pulled Spike into his arms. “Amazing, then. Outstanding, Extraordinary.” They kissed one another. “Fascinating. Beautiful,” Angel said quietly.

They kissed some more, and Spike said soundlessly, “I love you,” against Angel’s mouth.

Angel chuckled again. “I can’t hear you,” he said, and then his eyes rolled back.

Spike pushed away, suddenly frightened as Angel went rigid and shuddered, gasping out his pain. Spike put his hands on Angel’s shoulders, tried to hold him down. “Leave him alone,” he demanded of the air, and after a moment, Angel stilled. His eyelids fluttered open and he reached towards Spike’s face.

\- - - - - 

They descended, already dressed and packed for travel, found Illyria waiting with Clint and Charlene. “Vision?” Clint asked, and Angel nodded. “Come back out to the barn, then,” Clint said. “Drink your fill for the road. And tell us where you’re off to. Charlene’s gonna post at the QS, see who can help you.”

Angel and Spike glanced at one another, something wordless passing between them. “Ohio,” Angel said. “Dayton.”

\- - - - -

“You’re lucky,” Charlene told them later. Doctor Mephisto is in Dayton. He’s a very powerful psychic. You’ll be in good hands.”

They thanked Clint and Charlene, who promised to follow their progress and to pray for their safe travel.

Spike drove 150 miles east, abandoned their stolen car beneath a bridge, stole another. They drove until just before daylight.

\- - - - -

Illyria, who had been silent since leaving Clint’s ranch, grew chatty as they began to bed down for the day. “Are Clint and Charlene… _mates?_ ” she asked.

“They’re married, yeah,” Spike replied.

“Is that important? Married?” she said.

“I’ll take this,” Angel said, then turned to Illyria. “It means they’ve made a promise to love one another for the rest of their lives.”

“Again, love,” Illyria said with distaste. “I do not understand why you beings place so much importance on love. You cannot eat it, or drink it. It cannot shelter or clothe you. It has no intrinsic worth. From what I have observed, it only rarely brings joy and often gives pain. And yet you creatures, with your limited life-spans and resources will pursue it to the exclusion of all other goals.”

“Because it’s the only thing that makes the rest of that crap worth anything,” Spike said sharply. “You could have every thing that you ever want, and if nobody cares if you live or die, you’re still in hell.” More quietly, he added, “believe me, I know.”

Illyria cocked her head to one side. “So, if one does not ever find a mate, one’s life has no worth?”

“It doesn’t have to be a mate,” Angel said. “Love comes in many forms. Family, friends, helping others…”

Illyria gave a slow blink. “I still do not understand.”

“Well, that’s your personal soap opera, I guess,” Spike said, stepping out of his clothes and heading into the bath. 

\- - - - -

Angel climbed into bed alongside Spike, still damp and smelling of hotel soap, flowery and chemical. Illyria, bored with the silent TV, had gone to watch cars pass by outside. Angel laid an arm over Spike’s back.

“How are you feeling?” Spike asked.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Angel told him.

“Doesn’t matter. How’s your head? Looked like that vision did a number on you.”

“I’ll get over it,” Angel said.

There was a moment of silence, then Spike went on. “We didn’t finish what we were talking about.”

Angel grinned. “You mean my description of your prowess?” he said. “Let’s see… have I used ‘Unbelievably Limber’ yet?”

Spike gave a small shake of his head. “No, what I was saying…”

Angel frowned. “About dislocating your joints? I thought you were joking.”

“No,” Spike said. “Just before…”

Angel hugged Spike to him. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’m fine. It’s not important.”

Spike swallowed hard. “No, I guess it’s not,” he said.


	9. After: The Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel, Spike, and Illyria go to Ohio, and team up with a new ally to find a demon.

They made a phone call to “Doctor Mephisto” twenty miles outside Dayton. They pulled into a diner just off the highway at approximately 2 a.m., went in and got a carafe full of coffee and plates of cheese fries.

Their food had just come when a boy slid into their booth. He wore a Green Lantern t-shirt and khaki shorts. He put his car keys and a small, sleek cell phone on the table as he sat.

“You guys just get in from Montana?” he said.

Spike and Angel stared at him disbelievingly, then narrowed their eyes. “Who wants to know?” Spike asked.

The kid spread his hands magnanimously. “I’m Doctor Mephisto,” he said.

Angel choked on a mouthful of coffee. “*You’re* Doctor Mephisto?”

The boy looked indignant. “What? You were expecting a cape and tights?”

“We were expecting someone who shaved,” Spike said.

“Hey! I’m seventeen!”

“Old enough to buy beer, then,” Spike said with a smug smile.

The boy glared. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Forgive these insects,” Illyria said. “They are too limited to realize that appearance means nothing. They cannot see the river of power that flows through you.”

“Doctor Mephisto” stared at her. “Whoa,” he said after a moment. “You’re… you’re the escaped one. I read about you on the board.”

Illyria actually looked demure. “I am sure my story has been much exaggerated.”

The boy turned his attention back to Angel. “So where do you need to be, and when do you need to be there?”

Angel glanced at Spike. “It’s a house with blue shutters, and window boxes with red flowers…”

\- - - - -

“So what’s your name?” Spike said as they followed the boy to his mother’s car. “Because I just can’t bring myself to call you ‘Doctor Mephisto.’”

The boy cast a glare in Spike’s direction. “It’s Calvin,” he said. “And you can just forget any tiger jokes right now, because I’ve heard them all.” Three pairs of eyes stared at him blankly. “Alright, then,” he muttered.

They all climbed into the gray Chevy Suburban, Illyria in the front, Spike and Angel in the second seat. They stowed their bags on the floor.

“Your car gonna be okay in the diner lot?” Calvin asked as they pulled out.

“Not my car, mate,” Spike said, and after a few moments Calvin nodded.

“Ah. Got ya,” he said.

The house was typically middle-class, circa 1950, and Calvin remembered to invite them in. “There’s a futon in my room that folds out,” he said, “and the old one can have my mom’s bedroom.”

Angel glanced dubiously around the boy’s room, which was stacked and cluttered with video games, DVDs, sports equipment, and plastic milk crates full of comic books. “What about your mother?” he said.

“Well,” Calvin said, shoving aside some boxes and wrestling the sofa into a bed, “she’s on a business trip for the next ten days in Buffalo, so make yourself at home.” Without further comment, he flopped face-first onto the bed.

Angel and Spike looked at one another, then wordlessly removed shoes and shirts and lay on the futon bed. Illyria wandered into the hall and began to examine the contents of the bath.

\- - - - -

Angel woke in the late afternoon to the sound of Spike’s deep laughter, obviously muffled behind one hand. Angel opened one eye, found Spike sitting up and reading one of Calvin’s comic books. “What’s so funny?” Angel said, and Spike looked over guiltily.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, but turned back to the book and chuckled again.

“You might as well tell me.”

Spike grinned. “Well, see, Captain America needed the Hulk to fight these aliens, so he has Bruce Banner thrown out of a helicopter, and then he tells the Hulk that the aliens said he was gay…”

“Guys, you have to listen to this.” Calvin entered the bedroom holding a ringing cell phone. “Let me just put it in walkie mode.” He flipped it open and said, “tell us all about it, Jeff.”

“How did you..?” came the tinny voice on the other end of the line, then a slow, “oh, yeah, right. Well if you know it’s me, Calvin, then you know what I’m calling about.”

Calvin gave a wolfish grin. “I want to hear it from you, *Jeffrey.*” he said. 

“Okay, fine. I need to know if my mom found my stash.”

“Yes, she did,” Calvin said. “And she’s planning to take your car.”

“Oh, shit,” Jeffrey said miserably.

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have been stupid enough to hide it in the living room,” Calvin said. “But listen. You want to get out of it? Ask your mom about Alpha Sig’s Midsummer Night’s Dream party.”

“W-what? What happened at that?”

“You don’t want to know,” Calvin said, “but let’s just say she’ll be rattled enough that she’ll forget about the car.”

There was a moment of silence on the line, then, “listen, Calvin, thanks a lot. I owe you one.”

“Yes, you do.” Calvin snapped his phone shut.

Angel pushed himself up. “Very impressive,” he said.

“Yeah,” Spike said. “In thirty seconds you set that kid up for decades of serious therapy.”

Calvin waved one hand dismissively. “He won’t say anything,” he said. “He’ll let his mom take away his car, and then he’ll whine about it until school starts.”

“Great,” Angel said. “So you’re using this powerful psychic gift to torture your friends.”

“Like I have a choice,” Calvin said. “It only works on people I know, like, really well. But the second I graduate, I’m getting a job at the racetrack and getting to know a bunch of the jockeys.”

“Well, that’s really great,” Spike said, climbing to his feet. “But have you gotten any signals yet on houses with blue shutters?”

Calvin glared at the two vampires. “Not yet,” he admitted. “I’m having trouble getting a hold on you guys.”

Angel got up, too. “Then I guess we do this the old-fashioned way,” he said. “Spike? Get me the book from your pack. The house is on a street named for a metal. We’ll need a street map…”

\- - - - -

They narrowed it down to three possibilities: Steele Avenue, Silver Road, and Copper Circle. At dusk, they bundled into the SUV and began searching them out. Their progress was better than in Montana, and within an hour they’d found the house in Angel’s vision.

“So how do we do this?” Calvin asked.

“What do you mean ‘we?’” Spike said. “You have superpowers, now?”

Calvin scowled. “No.”

“Are you a black-belt in the martial arts?” Spike went on. “A student of arcane knowledge? Are you packing a couple of hand grenades?”

“Of course not.”

“Then *you,* little boy, are staying in the car,” Spike said, “while the two powerful vampires and the former elder god go in to defeat the killer demon, understand?”

“...yes.”

Angel, Spike, and Illyria stepped onto the sidewalk, started towards the house.

“So how do we do this?” Spike asked.

“There’s a small, stone, artifact,” Angel said. “Looks like a disc with a star carved on it. A demon lord is using it as a portal to come through and find a suitable host.” Angel moved his hand just above the surface of the door, feeling for the change in temperature that would indicate an open portal within. “It comes through, possesses the nearest human, and stays until the body is used up. Then it retreats, builds up strength until it can try again.”

“So it’s not compatible,” Spike said.

“It’s just particular,” Illyria corrected. “It will find a host eventually.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you’d have the inside track on that,” Spike said under his breath. 

“It’s probably killed the family already,” Angel said, “and it’ll start working outward.” He lifted one foot, kicked the door open, walked cautiously into the gloom. Spike and Illyria followed.

The house was dark, and the darkness felt… imposed, as though the building had been draped with a giant cloth. The air was still, fetid with the scents of rotten eggs and ashes.

“So where might we find this artifact?” Spike asked. 

“Could be anywhere,” Angel said. “Goddamn visions…”

Above them the floor creaked, followed by a quick volley of footsteps. 

“There is something upstairs,” Illyria said.

“Oh, no,” Spike said with mock horror. “Do you think it could be dangerous?”

“Stop,” Angel said sternly.

“I’ll find it,” Illyria said, and she vaulted the staircase and disappeared into the darkness above. 

“Bollocks,” Spike swore as he and Angel charged after.

They nearly collided with Illyria in a bedroom doorway. “Have caution,” she said quietly. “There is a human child within.” 

They stepped into what was obviously a child’s bedroom, with pink ruffled daybed piled with stuffed animals and nursery-rhyme characters painted on the walls. Tucked in the corner, under a blanket, they heard a tiny, breathy sob.

Angel moved closer. “Hello?” he said quietly, “is there someone here? We won’t hurt you. We’re here to help.”

Very slowly two wide blue eyes peeked over the edge of the blanket. 

“That’s right,” Angel said. “It’s all right. We’re going to take you out of here.” He held out one hand.

“Mommy an’ Daddy are dead,” the little girl said.

“I’m sorry about that,” Angel said. “But we’ll get you to someone who can take care of you.”

The child got to her feet, took one step closer. “It’s okay,” Angel said, encouraging her with one hand, and she took another step.

“No, Angel, don’t touch her! She’s the demon!” This was Calvin, bursting in from the hallway.

The girl turned to the intruder, and her tiny face twisted into something far older, grotesque, profane. “Oracle…” she hissed, and launched herself past Angel at the boy.

Spike and Illyria both stepped in front of her, so she turned on them instead, hissing and spitting, lashing out with small hands curled into claws. It became quickly clear that the demon had overestimated the strength of its host, and it was soon hung suspended between Spike and Illyria, who held one arm and one leg each. 

“Where’s the artifact?” Angel demanded, stalking closer and looming over the possessed child. 

“Like I’d tell you, faggot,” the demon growled. “You and your cock-sucking little toy are way out of your league.”

Spike thumped the demon on the head, earning him a high-pitched yowl. 

“Sorry. Slipped,” Spike said.

Angel didn’t shift his gaze. “Calvin,” he said, “go out into the hall and see if you can find a crucifix of some kind.”

“Right,” Calvin said, heading out of the room.

“They’re just waiting for their chance to kill you,” the demon said to Illyria. “The minute you let your guard down…”

“Your feeble attempt to incite me will not be successful,” Illyria said. “You will only serve to annoy me.”

“This is all I could find,” Calvin said. He was holding a plastic wall-hanging that said “Bless this House.”

“That should work,” Angel said. He took another step closer to the child. “Where is the artifact?”

“Fuck you, pervert! Child molester!”

“Put the cross on its forehead,” Angel said. Calvin stepped forward, gripping the cross. The possessed girl shrieked, threw her head back and forth. Calvin pressed the cross against her face and she jerked away, twisted her head sideways and vomited foul liquid onto Spike.

“Bloody hell,” Spike swore, and thumped the girl again.

“Press it down hard, Calvin,” Angel shouted, and the boy held it down with both hands. The demon screamed and thrashed, and Spike and Illyria struggled to hold on.

“Where’s the artifact?” Angel shouted. “Tell me, you son of a bitch!”

The demon howled, and then, suddenly, the girl went quiet and limp. Spike and Illyria tensed, anticipating another trick, but a tiny voice, heavy with defeat, said, “it’s in the fridge.”

“I’ll get it,” Calvin said, but Angel grabbed his wrist. 

“You need to hold the cross,” he said. “I’ll get it.”

As soon as he left the room the possessed child began a piteous whine that increased in volume. “Shut up,” Spike barked, and the creature’s eyes flipped open.

“You’re fooling yourself, you know,” she said. “He could never love you.”

And then she screamed, as below Angel shattered the artifact.

\- - - - -

By the time the police arrived, the little girl had woken up in Angel’s arms, healthy and strong. She’d cried for her mother, and both vampires felt their unbeating hearts break. 

They returned to Calvin’s home, watching the boy as he moved about in a daze, then following him into the living room where he stared for a long time at a point far away.

“You did a good job tonight, Calvin,” Angel told him at last.

“We were too late,” Calvin said.

“We didn’t know,” Angel said.

“I should have,” Calvin answered. “That demon was sucking up everybody in that little girl’s family for days, not five miles from here, and I…” he tapped his head with his forefinger, “didn’t even know. I was raiding the liquor cabinet with my friends when her mom was being wrung out like a sponge.”

The vampires searched for words, but it was Illyria who spoke. “You have been given a gift,” she said. “You did not choose it, nor cultivate the skill. But the one who gave the gift has a plan for you. Such power dies not come into being merely by chance.”

Calvin stared at her, nodded slowly. “But the poor little girl,” he said, and his voice broke. He reached for the tissue box, and cried.

\- - - - - 

Later, Angel helped Calvin into bed, his arm around the boy’s slender shoulders a reminder of just how young he was. Then Angel slipped into the futon and Spike joined him.

“Nothing that demon said was true,” Angel said, pulling Spike close to him. “You’re not a toy.”

“I know,” Spike said.

\- - - - -

The night passed quickly, and Spike woke early. He lay awake, watching Angel’s sleeping face. Angel’s dark eyelashes were shadows beneath his eyes, and his soft, full mouth was relaxed against his still face. Spike’s patience only lasted a few minutes, though, and he leaned across the mere few inches to kiss Angel’s chin, his cheek. He could still taste the lingering scent of the house from the night before, and he pulled back, troubled.

Angel opened his eyes, frowned, raised one hand to touch Spike’s cheek. “What’s wrong?” he said.

Spike shook his head, and Calvin’s voice cut across the room. “Jesus, can you at least wait until I’m in the shower?”

Angel sat up. “Why don’t you mind your own damn business?” he snapped, but Spike took the opportunity to bolt out of the bed and into the bathroom himself.

\- - - - -

Illyria and the two vampires took the respite from any imperative visions to do their laundry, and Calvin, after several conversations back and forth on his cell, finally found a butcher’s shop willing to package several pints of blood. He then called in a favor from a girl he’d done readings on to pick them up and bring them by the house.

After they’d eaten, Calvin set Angel up on the computer to scroll around the Quadrivium website while he, Spike, and Illyria played 007 on Calvin’s Playstation 2.

Angel quickly scrolled the site’s mission statement (“To provide a safe and private haven for the specially skilled and gifted to learn, share, interact, network, blah, blah, blahdy-blah…) then went to the membership information.

Everyone seemed to go by some sort of nickname, though many had short bios attached giving their home state, talent, and maybe a few lines more. He found Clint under “BigSkyCowboy” and Charlene as “Mrs. BSC,” but the listing for “Captain Crewe” said only “password secured.”

Angel frowned and began to scroll down when a new window popped up on the screen. 

“Captain Crewe has invited you into a private chat. Do you accept?”

Angel couldn’t click the “yes” button fast enough. 

“Hello, Angel,” came the message.

“Who are you?” Angel typed, and then the vision hit him. 

He felt himself falling to the floor as if in slow-motion, felt Spike’s strong hands catch his head at the last moment and lower him gently down, but this was a distant sensation as the images of demons and bloody death streamed into his brain.

He came to with Spike’s cool hands stroking a damp cloth over his forehead and temples. Angel sat up. “The computer!” he said.

“What about it?” Calvin said, stepping over to the desk.

Angel tried to push himself up, found he was too weak, and allowed himself to sink back into Spike’s arms. “There was a screen that came up. It was Captain Crewe.”

Calvin clicked around with the mouse. “I don’t see it,” he said. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“See if you can contact him,” Spike said calmly.

“That’s just it,” Calvin said. “You can’t contact him. There isn’t an email or an IM name. There isn’t even a membership drop-box.”

“So, what? Are you saying he doesn’t exist?” Spike said.

Calvin looked up, distracted from clicking through the message forums. “No, but it looks like he’s logging in on multiple ISPs.” Off three blank looks, he explained, “he’s posting from different computers in different locations. If I were to guess, I’d say Captain Crewe was actually a group of people.”

Angel looked up at Spike. “Wolfram and Hart?” he said.

Spike shook his head. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem like their style.”

Angel raised one hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, my head,” he said.

“Where to now?” Spike asked.

“Tupelo, Mississippi,” Angel said. “More demons, another portal.”

“Yeah, I can tell I’m gonna get good and sick of them,” Spike said under his breath. 

Calvin sat in the desk chair. “I’ll check on the board, see if anyone’s in the area.”

“Thanks,” Spike said. “Illyria, help me get Angel on his feet.”

\- - - - -

Forty minutes later, Calvin snapped his cell shut. “There’s a guy named Mr. Jupiter, a trucker,” he announced. “He can get you just before dawn outside of Cleveland, and I can get you that far.”

“Are you sure it’s no problem?” Angel asked.

Calvin shrugged. “What else do I have to do?” he said.

\- - - - -

“Thanks for everything,” Angel said as they waited alongside the highway.

“Yes,” Illyria said. “I have enjoyed your hospitality.”

An enormous tractor-trailer pulled up, and the passenger door popped open. A burly, fiftyish man in a “Mack” baseball cap leaned out. “Which one of you guys is Doctor Mephisto?” he said.

“That’s me,” Calvin said.

“We appreciate you doing this, uh…” Angel began.

“Call me Mr. Jupiter,” the man said. “If you two get in the back of the cab, you should be okay for the day.”

Thanks,” Angel said, springing up and reaching back to help the others. He got a look of confusion from Illyria and a disgusted look from Spike as both easily climbed up on their own.

Angel was surprised to see a whole compartment behind the seats with double bed, fridge, and cabinets.

“Tie down, boys,” Mr. Jupiter said. “We gotta move out.”

Illyria strapped into the passenger seat, while Angel pulled Spike back to sit on the bed. Mr. Jupiter put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the highway.


	10. After: Blue Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief respite on the road.

“So, I already know most of your story from the forums,” Mr. Jupiter said. BigSkyCowboy and his wife are trying to get everyone lined up to get you where you need to go.”

“We really do appreciate it,” Angel repeated for the fifth time since boarding the truck.

“Well, it sounds like you boys are trying to keep the world from blowing up. Or monsters from eating us all, or whatever,” Mr. Jupiter said, “and that’s a cause I have no trouble supporting.” He laughed at his own joke, and Spike leaned forward.

“So what’s your special talent?” he said.

“Driving trucks,” Mr. Jupiter replied, laughing again, then he grew serious. “It was actually my daughter who was in the society. She… she was what they call an empath. She felt other people’s pain, as bad as they did. She couldn’t control it. Like if someone near her broke a bone, she’d feel the throbbing, a little at first, then worse and worse the longer she was near them.”

“That must have been a great burden for her,” Illyria said.

“Yeah,” Mr. Jupiter said. “That’s why I had her travel with me. So we could always keep moving if we had to.” He fell into a tense silence, clearly not wanting to go on, but at last he said, “I couldn’t save her, though.”

“How did she die?” Angel prompted.

Mr. Jupiter sighed. “We got into a traffic jam. Total gridlock, and as we crept along, my baby was in more and more pain.” He sighed more deeply. “It was a car crash. A family of six scattered and broken all over the road. My little girl died of heart failure brought on by all that pain.”

They drove on in silence, and after several minutes Spike silently coaxed Angel to lie down, so they could both get some rest.

\- - - - -

Angel slept restlessly, vivid dreams, or “vision hangovers” as Cordelia had called them, awakening him at random intervals. He could hear Illyria and Mr. Jupiter talking in the cab ahead of them, the man talking about his child, her gifts, her life and her death. Occasionally, Illyria would ask a question, and while these interjections showed an almost touching innocence, Angel couldn’t help but think how clearly they demonstrated a cleaving between what Illyria was and the rest of humanity.

“How do you know what you felt for her was love?” was one question that drove Angel to full wakefulness, and would have driven him from the bed to chastise Illyria for her callousness, had not Mr. Jupiter answered,

“Because I cared more about her than I did about myself.”

There was a moment of silence, and Angel could imagine Illyria cocking her head to the side, trying to figure this latest riddle out.

“I wanted her to be strong, and happy,” Mr. Jupiter went on, then. “If I could have given up these things myself for her, I would have. But I couldn’t. So I just remember her, how she was, and try to live as she would have wanted me to.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” Illyria said. “There was one who I wished to please.”

“One of the vampires?”

“No. Another. But I do not understand myself enough to say if it was love.” And she fell silent again.

\- - - - -

Mr. Jupiter pulled into a truck stop a few hours past sunset. Angel and Spike had woken sometime before, so Mr. Jupiter simply told his three passengers to let him sleep, and he’d see them in the morning.

Angel, Spike, and Illyria went to the nearby picnic area, and sat at one of the tables.

“I tire of this travel,” Illyria said. “It is time-consuming and tedious.”

“I’m right with you, there,” Spike said.

“I’m not choosing these visions,” Angel said, an edge coming to his voice. “But, hey, don’t feel like I’m dragging you along. You’re free to go whenever you want.”

Spike reached across the table, put his hand over Angel’s. “I won’t do that,” he said, giving each word a pointed emphasis, and the tension drained a little from Angel’s face.

“I know,” he said. “This has just been hard on all of us.”

“I know,” Spike agreed, and he leaned over to kiss Angel gently.

“I am free to go?” Illyria said, and the two men turned to her.

“I doubt we could hold you even if we wanted to,” Angel said seriously, “but, yes, you’re free to go.”

She appeared to consider this for several moments, until Spike said, “do you want to leave?”

“I do not know,” Illyria said. “It is not a possibility I had considered.” She stood and faced them. “I will think about this. We will discuss more tomorrow.” And then she walked into the deep shadow of the trees beyond the yellow pools of light given off by streetlamps over the picnic grove.

“That was interesting,” Spike said.

Angel let his head fall into his hands. “I guess,” he said. “Jesus. What’ll we do if she goes?”

“Fuck a lot more?” Spike said hopefully, and Angel chuckled lightly.

“Do you know what I want to do?” Spike said thoughtfully. “I want to go hunting with you, like we did in the old days.” When he had Angel’s attention, Spike gestured towards the woods. “There are deer in there,” he said. “They’re only a little bigger than humans. But fresh blood, Angel. Spiced with fear and running hot.” He gave his most seductive look. “You know you want to.”

Angel caught himself before he started to drool. “Let’s go,” he said.

\- - - - -

They walked a few hundred yards into the trees, and Spike stopped in a small clearing where the grass was soft. “We should take off our clothes,” he said. “We don’t have much, and bloodstains won’t come out.”

Angel took a breath to argue, realized that he really didn’t want to, and nodded instead.

They undressed quickly, Angel folding his clothes neatly and Spike just letting his scatter.

“Follow me,” Spike whispered, and he melted into the shadows. 

They found a small group of deer grazing in the moonlight and watched, wordlessly, as one doe strayed a bit away from her companions. The vampires moved through the underbrush to put themselves between her and the herd, watched as she raised her head, sensed the danger without seeing it and moved further into the woods. Angel caught Spike’s eye and knew they shared a thought: Just like a human.

The doe picked her delicately through the trees, and the two predators deliberately drove her on, away from those who might protect her. They kept far back, and apart, just close enough to keep her heart beating a little faster, the adrenaline trickling through her veins.

As she walked, the vampires followed, gradually moving closer to her. Angel and Spike watched each other, too, the old habits returning as though not a day had passed since they last hunted together. But then, the hunting grounds had been an ugly, dirty town in Eastern Europe, and the quarry a drunken gambler who had lost most of his teeth and smelled of sour cabbage.

The doe came to a stream and stopped at its edge. The moving water seemed to sweeten the air, clearing the ozone from the nearby highway, and the sound of it over the rocks seemed to calm the animal. She lowered her head to drink.

From either side, the vampires leapt at her.

She brought her long legs together, and they acted like a spring, propelling her straight up. Angel grabbed for her head, bent it back, and Spike drove his fangs in between her vertebrae, just where her back curved up into her neck.

She landed, already dead, though she didn’t know it, and collapsed slowly, gracefully, onto the pebbled edge of the stream.

Angel tore into the soft part of her throat just below her jaw and drank greedily, hot draughts of the doe’s blood filling his mouth and throat. Spike ripped a jagged hole in her stomach and sucked from the thick arteries nearest her heart, heedless of the blood and gore that spattered over him.

The blood was good, better than either had tasted since their soulless days. The hunt and the wilderness seasoned the feast like no spice ever could, and they drank until their bellies were stretched tight, like well-fed puppies.

Angel rolled into the grass with a groan of pleasure, while Spike simply rested against the doe’s slowly-cooling flank. “That was great,” Angel said. “I really needed that.”

“I completely agree,” Spike said. “In fact, let’s forget about the whole mission thing and just stay here. We’ll live like the wolves did before the settlers wiped them out.”

“That sounds good,” Angel said sleepily.

They dozed for a bit, then rose and washed in the chilly water of the stream. They re-traced their own footsteps to the clearing where they’d left their clothes, and Angel had to laugh at Spike’s outrage that his strewn garments were wet and cold from the pre-dawn dew.

Illyria was waiting for them at the truck. 

“Is Mr. Jupiter still asleep?” Spike asked. 

“No. He’s gone to use the washroom,” she told them. 

All three stared at each other until Angel finally said, “what have you decided?”

“I am staying with you,” Illyria said. “For now.” She lowered her eyes, frowned. “I have no place or purpose, except with you.”

“I’m glad you’re staying,” Angel said. Illyria looked away, uncomfortable and confused.

\- - - - - 

They entered Tupelo city limits after 10 that night, and pulled up beside a darkened building. There was a light rain falling. “You’re staying with a man named Cleophus James,” Mr. Jupiter said. “I’ve actually met with him a few times on runs. He’s an alright guy.”

The door to the building opened, and they could see a man silhouetted in the light from within. He opened an umbrella and walked toward the truck. Mr. Jupiter lowered his windows and they looked down into the face of an elderly black man, framed with white tufts of hair, like cotton.

“Good evening,” the man said. “I take it these are our charges.”

“Yep,” Mr. Jupiter said. “This is Angel, Spike, and Illyria. Guys, this is Reverend James.”

“Reverend…” Spike repeated under his breath.

“You’d best all come inside,” the Reverend said. 

“Thanks, but I can’t,” Mr. Jupiter said. “Maybe on the way back.”

Angel opened the passenger door, climbed out followed by the others, and they all trailed after Rev. James. Spike, lagging back, caught Angel’s arm.

“What?” Angel whispered at him.

“We’re going to be trapped,” Spike hissed back. “All day. Inside a church.”

Angel took Spike’s hand, felt the unconscious resistance, and even more subtle, the slightest shiver. “It’s okay,” Angel said reassuringly. 

“Are you mad?” Spike said, and Angel pulled him closer.

“I’m here,” he said into Spike’s ear. “I’ll protect you.”

He felt the younger vampire relax, very slightly, but enough to move him through the wooden door and into the church.


	11. After: The View Across the River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel and Spike question their mission.

Rev. Cleophus James led his guests through the church sanctuary. The room was traditionally styled, white walls, rows of wooden pews, and stained glass in a simple diamond pattern of reds and blues. Bible verses were painted above the windows in block letters, and a raised platform held the altar and lectern. In the wall near the platform was a wooden door, a door the Reverend now approached.

Angel felt Spike’s resistance again, saw him avert his eyes from the gleaming cross above the altar. “Reverend,” Angel said, and the man turned to them. “You’re aware of what we are.”

The old preacher gave a slow nod.

“Then you know we cannot abide these symbols of faith,” Angel said, wondering what about this situation was compelling him to speak so formally.

“For now you will abide them, son,” Rev. James said. “God never promised to make it easy for his servants.”

Angel felt Spike tense in anger at this, heard the sub-vocal growl in his throat. But he strode after the preacher, defiant, into the man’s living quarters behind the sanctuary.

The environment was no less hostile to them here; in fact, it seemed even more so given the seemingly random way bibles and other holy objects lay about the room.

“Please sit down,” the preacher said, and they joined him around the table. “Now, am I to understand that you are given visions?”

“Yes,” Angel said.

“And from whom do these visions come?”

Angel looked embarrassed. “The Powers That Be,” he said.

“Angel, those of us in the Quadrivium Society have been discussing your mission,” the Reverend said. “Some of us doubt ‘The Powers That Be’ are entirely the benevolent force they would purport themselves to be.”

Angel nodded. “I’ve had the same thought.”

“Our most compelling evidence is the demon called Skip,” Rev. James said. “First he is apparently neutral, doing a job and confining a clearly evil being.”

“How did you..?”

“There are several of us who have been following your mission,” Rev. James explained. “Psychics. Some of the Wolfram and Hart employees. A poster called Captain Crewe has been very helpful filling in the blank spots.”

Spike and Angel turned to one another. Spike raised one eyebrow.

“Then he helps your seer,” Rev. James went on. “Makes her part demon so she can cope with her visions.”

Spike, still looking at Angel, frowned.

“It seems he did so to aid you,” Rev. James said, “but in light of last year’s events, one might reconsider his real motivation.”

“You’re not telling me anything I haven’t thought myself,” Angel said. “But what am I supposed to do? Just ignore these visions?”

Rev. James nodded slowly. “That is exactly what I’m suggesting.”

“No, he can’t do that,” Spike said. “Those visions are already…”

“Spike, let’s hear this out…”

“No, Angel. Even when you follow these visions you suffer. Now you’re saying your girl had to become part demon…”

“Spike, please…”

“What did they do to her? What will they do to you? And what alternative is this secret society offering?”

“Spike!” Angel said sharply.

“We don’t even know them,” Spike said.

“We have a plan,” the preacher said calmly.

Angel put his hand over Spike’s and gave a gentle squeeze. “We’re listening,” he said.

“Your Powers That Be seem motivated only by the perpetuation of the status quo,” Rev. James said. “Prophecy and the balance of power shift in the favor of good, they arrange to remove two of your most powerful warriors and deliver Jasmine to strike you down. Wolfram and Hart makes forward strides, they arrange for you to be the architect of their downfall. Now, when you are poised to change not only the balance of power but to re-write the rules of the game, they drain your strength and fill your time with wild goose chases from one side of the country to the other.”

“They aren’t wild goose chases,” Spike muttered.

But Illyria took hold of another thought. “What do you mean, he might re-write the rules of the game?”

Rev. James looked from face to face. “There are those among us who believe we may have found a way to close the gateways between the dimensions.”

“What? You mean forever?”

“I can’t speak for forever, Angel, but for a very long time.”

“This is complete bollocks,” Spike said, pushing back from the table.

“No,” Illyria said. “It has happened before. It takes great power to close the gates, and great power to open them again, but when the forces align… it is possible.”

“And you’re saying the forces have aligned,” Spike said.

“Say it’s possible,” Angel said. “Say there is a way. What would that mean? How would things change?”

“Nothing material could move between worlds,” Illyria said, “and that which remained, cut off from its home dimension, would have its strength greatly reduced.”

“No new demons,” the preacher elaborated. “No hellgods. We can concentrate the fight on what is here without the fear of some new threat.”

“It’s madness,” Spike insisted. “You are talking about altering the foundations of existence.”

“Spike, just listen,” Angel said, putting a hand on his arm. Then Angel’s hand curled into a fist, and he was falling back. He heard Spike shouting his name as though from very far away.

\- - - - -

The vision was the same. That is, the event it foretold, of a man summoning a demon through a portal, had not changed, but the surrounding details were more vivid, more complex, more horrible. And the pain that accompanied the vision was worse.

Angel heard himself screaming, and came to in Spike’s arms with tears streaming down his face.

“Easy, Angel,” Spike soothed. “I’ve got you.”

“No, it was the same,” Angel said.

“That’s fine,” Spike said. “We know that one. We’re on it, it won’t happen.”

“Doesn’t this make my point,” Rev. James said. “The visions are sent to distract from the plan to close the gateways.”

“This doesn’t prove anything,” Spike shot back. “We know the visions are real. Your crazy theories could be completely wrong, or dangerous.”

“Perhaps there is a third possibility,” Illyria said, and they turned to her. “We have the potential through the Quadrivium Society to send others to attend to the visions. We should view these objectives as a general would, not as soldiers.”

Angel looked back at Rev. James. “Is that possible? Could you alert enough people to stop this man from doing the summoning?”

The preacher rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think so,” he said. “I have my congregation, to start with.”

“I can’t put innocent people…” Angel began, but Spike cut him off.

“How many people will be at this summoning,” he said.

“Just one, but…”

“They could do it,” Spike said thoughtfully. “And if it kept you out of danger…”

Angel tried to get up. “I’m not supposed to be kept out of danger…”

Spike easily held Angel down and ignored the older vampire’s growls. “I still don’t like the idea of toying with the gateways,” he said, “but we’ll try Illyria’s idea this one time. If it works, we can discuss this some more.”

“Spike! We are not discussing this at all!” Angel complained, but this was ignored, too.

“I’ll call my people in,” Rev. James said, and he left the room.

“Do you really think this will work?” Angel asked Illyria.

“It has in the past,” Illyria said.

“Do you remember that time?”

“I was aware,” Illyria said. “But I was already imprisoned.”

“Let’s go,” Spike said, rising and hauling Angel to his feet. “Off to bed for you.”

\- - - - -

The manse guest room reawakened Spike’s fear, with its religious art, including a huge, brass crucifix above the bed. And while Spike had wanted nothing more than to lay Angel down and rub those broad, tense, shoulders until he surrendered to sleep, he kept imagining the cross slipping off its hook and crashing onto Angel; one more “fuck you” from a universe that clearly hated them both.

He froze in the doorway, Angel leaning against him, until Angel became aware of Spike’s apprehension. “Wait here,” Angel said, easing Spike back a step into the hall and closing the bedroom door.

Angel regarded the cross for a moment, then gritted his teeth, wrapped his hands in the bedsheets, and lifted it from the wall. He managed to hold it just long enough to lift it off the wall, and half-drop it onto the bed. He bundled it in the remaining bedclothes and pulled it onto the floor. Then he kicked it under the bed. Gingerly, he pulled the bedclothes loose and dropped them back on the bed in a heap.

He returned to the door, opened it and watched the expression of relief break over Spike’s face. He pulled the younger vampire closer, dropped his head onto Spike’s shoulder. Spike took Angel’s meaning as though he had spoken it aloud, moved Angel to the bed and wordlessly began to help him undress.

“I can’t wait here while it happens,” Angel said after a few minutes, and Spike looked up from where he knelt at Angel’s feet, pulling off his boots. 

“You have to,” Spike said. “We need to know.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Angel said. “I don’t just see pictures in my head; I feel it, like I’m there. I’m being gutted. I’m being ripped apart.”

“What do you think about the closing of the gateways,” Spike said lightly, trying to change the subject, but not really.

“Illyria has no reason to lie,” Angel pointed out. “She’s with us by choice, now. If she says it’s possible, I have to believe it might be.”

“And if it is possible,” Spike said, “then that means the Powers are working towards some other goal, at odds with us.” He shook his head. “That thought’s gonna keep me up, I’ll tell you that for free.”

Angel slumped down, and Spike thought, he looks smaller.

“If the powers are against us,” Angel said, “I have to wonder if I’m doing the right thing.”

“You’re doing the right thing,” Spike affirmed. “The question is… Who do we trust?”

Angel winced as Spike pulled his shirt over his head. “I’m not sure I trust the powers,” he admitted. “The priest made some good points. And when I think of everything poor Cordy went through…”

“I don’t know much about that,” Spike said, “but I know I don’t trust the amateur Hellfire Club. Not that the ones we’ve met haven’t been okay, but we don’t know anything about the ones calling the shots. This Captain Crunch, or whatever the hell he calls himself, for instance. How the fuck is he ‘filling in the blank spots?’”

Angel caught Spike’s hands, looked intently into his eyes. “That’s just it,” Angel said. “I feel like Captain Crewe does know us. I think the plan to close the gateways might work. But at the same time, I can’t commit to it while these visions are compelling me.”

Spike leaned down, pressed his forehead to Angel’s. “Just one time,” he said. “Just once and then we’ll know.”

“I don’t know if I can, Spike.”

“I’ll be here for you,” Spike said. “Take what you need from me.”

\- - - - -

Angel suffered three more visions in the course of the day, and Rev. James’s congregation prepared to respond to the vision without him. The last was so bad that he had the window raised and had climbed halfway out before Spike could drag him back inside and knot the blankets around him to make him stay. Angel had come out of it and tried to joke about it, and Spike had teased that it was too bad they hadn’t thought to bring the chains and manacles when they’d left L.A., but neither really found it funny.

When the men Rev. James had enlisted left to attend to their task, Angel began to pace. When their wives and daughters and sisters joined the preacher in exhortations to Almighty God for their safety and success, the strength seemed to leave him, and Spike eased him down onto the bed.

“Be strong,” Spike said. “I know you are. Anyone who can toss me around the way you have...”

“No,” Angel said. “I can’t.” He grabbed Spike’s hand, gripped it until Spike bit the inside of his cheek for the pain. “You have to go for me,” he said.

“What?”

“Be my eyes. Be my weapon. You’re blood, William. I can’t trust anyone else.”

Spike took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll go,” he said. “But promise me you won’t try to follow me.”

“I doubt I could…”

“Promise me, Angel. Swear it.”

“I promise,” Angel said, releasing Spike’s hand.

Spike went down the hall to where Illyria was going through the books in the pastoral study. “I need you to do something for me,” he said.

\- - - - -

In a way, Spike realized, it was good that Angel had sent him to confirm what the vision had told him, for he might not have believed it otherwise. But it did fit the pattern of diminishing threat they had followed across the continent.

Yes, the house demon in Ohio had already killed four people and possessed a fifth, but compared to the thousands threatened in Montana, it was a big step down. Now, Spike arrived at the empty storefront in Angel’s vision to find two dozen of Rev. James’s congregation leading a young man with greasy hair and skull tattoos out of the building. Okay, true, there was a virgin sacrifice bound and gagged on a makeshift altar of sawhorses and old “Danzig” album covers, but it wasn’t anything a phone call to the cops couldn’t have easily taken care of.

Illyria and the secret society were right; they were being played.

When he returned to the manse, he found Illyria where he’d left her, guarding Angel’s door, and he entered to find Angel himself sprawled on the bed. He was unconscious, but muttering quickly under his breath. “Have to help them,” was one phrase Spike caught. “Too late,” was another.

Spike sat on the edge of the bed, put one hand over Angel’s. When Angel didn’t rouse, he put one hand to Angel’s cheek and said his name aloud.

Angel started and opened his eyes with a gasp. He gave a weak smile when he saw Spike there. “Did you get him?” he asked.

Spike decided to give Angel the full story when Angel had rested. “We got him,” he said.

“That’s very good, William. Very good,” Angel said, his eyes already closing again. “You were always a good boy, William. I should have told you…”

Spike stroked Angel’s forehead fondly, then turned away to prepare himself for bed. There was a soft knock at the door.

Spike answered it to find Rev. James there holding the phone receiver. “There’s a call for you,” he said.

Spike glanced back at Angel’s sleeping form, then stepped into the hallway, leaving the door ajar. He took the phone. “Hello?”

“Are you Spike? Am I speaking to Spike?” came a woman’s voice, tinny and distant.

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“I’m calling for Captain Crewe,” the woman said. “I haven’t much time but he wants me to tell you you’ve got to go to Paris. The Quadrivium Society can help you. But you can’t let Angel respond to the visions anymore. You can’t let him send you out again.”

Spike nearly dropped the phone. “How did you know that?” he said. “Who are you?”

“It will drive Angel to madness, he says.”

“Who says?” Spike said desperately. “Who is he?”

“In another life, it’s happened already.”

Spike held the phone with both hands, trying to steady it to his ear. “What has? What do you mean?”

“Go to Paris,” the woman repeated. “If you’re to close the gates, you must go to Paris.”

And then the line went dead.


	12. After: Korean Karaoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel and Spike make hard decisions about their mission.

Spike laid alongside Angel in the bed, though he didn’t go to sleep right away. His expectations of what lay ahead, his plans, as well as he could make them, were in complete disarray. They had to get to Europe now, had to somehow begin the process of closing off the gateways between the dimensions, and if experience told him anything, the process would probably kill someone.

At odds with this were The Powers That Be, whom Angel had trusted to guide them towards their ultimate destiny. Now, it seemed, the Powers were only distracting them, taking their energy in pointless directions. And Angel suffered, alone, needlessly.

Spike needed to get to a computer, to figure out how in hell three undocumented people, two of whom could only travel at night, were supposed to get to sodding *France* with one bag full of money and another full of medieval weaponry. It was madness.

Angel shifted in his sleep, and Spike tensed for another nightmare, but Angel only reached for him, laid one hand on his stomach and pulled him closer. “William,” he breathed.

Spike sighed and pressed his face against Angel’s throat. “I love you,” he mouthed soundlessly against the smooth skin. Then he, too, slept.

\- - - - -

Spike had wanted to protect Angel, find a way to make all the arrangements and just put him on the plane, but even though he rose early and holed up in the pastoral study with Rev. James’s computer, by the time Angel rose in late afternoon he’d barely sorted out who he needed to talk to.

Angel came into the study, still rumpled from sleep, and leaned over Spike’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” he said.

Spike smiled, turned to kiss Angel’s mouth. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Last night,” Angel said. “The portal.”

Spike dropped his head, then stood and took Angel’s hands. “Come with me,” he said. “We’ll get showered, and then I’ll tell you about last night.”

\- - - - -

Illyria and the preacher watched the back yard where Spike and Angel sat in the growing twilight.

“What are they talking about?” Rev. James asked. 

“Spike is telling Angel he has accepted our point of view,” Illyria said. “He is explaining we must leave soon for Paris.”

“How’s Angel taking it?”

Illyria frowned. “I am not certain,” she said. “He is quiet, and sighing. But he has agreed to Spike’s plan. Now Spike has apologized.”

Outside, Angel drew Spike into his arms and kissed him. Rev. James turned away and busied himself in the next room, while Illyria watched them both, curiously.

\- - - - -

The preacher made arrangements for the three to leave in two days from Tampa, Florida, and then pointedly did not ask where Spike got the car to take them.

\- - - - -

“What is the power these objects hold over you?” Illyria asked as they sped east along the Florida panhandle. 

“What? What power?” Spike asked, not taking his eyes from the road. Beside him, Angel woke from his restless doze.

“The icons and symbols of the church,” Illyria said. “I observed that you did not touch them, did not even look on them if you did not have to.”

“The crucifixes, you mean?” Spike said.

“If you like.”

“They burn us,” Angel said. “Crosses, bibles, holy water, the host. Anything sanctified or blessed.”

“But what is their power?” Illyria went on. “Why do they burn you but not me? Or the humans?”

“Well, they’re holy, aren’t they?” Spike said. “And we’re unholy. It’s like mixing matter and anti-matter.”

”But Wesley explained to me that there are many faiths,” Illyria said. “Why should artifacts of only one have such power over you? Are its Gods greater?”

Angel and Spike exchanged looks, remembering their own debates when Spike was young.

\- - - - -

“What is it with you and the nuns, mate? It’s like an all-consuming passion.”

“It is a blasphemy of the highest order, William. A profound offense against God. As creatures of evil, it is our purpose to profane this holy place.”

“But why is that so important? I honestly don’t see how raping and murdering some dried-up old Mother Superior is so much more offensive than rogering some bird on the street and stringing her entrails all round the fence-posts.”

Angelus gave a grunt of disgust. “For starters, lad, I don’t partake of the physical delights with anyone who isn’t young and at least passing fair. As to your question, what’s more offensive to a man--- hearing of a stranger being ruined, or having his own bride used like a whore in his very own home?”

“You see,” William said, “that’s my point. You assume God takes a greater interest in the nuns than any girl on the street. To someone raised Church of England…”

“Yourself, to pick a random example…”

“…the Almighty takes offense at all acts of evil. Every death we cause is as blasphemous as another. Take this sweet morsel.” He indicated a novitiate who was sobbing quietly on the floor. “Her death is a profanity because she is an innocent virgin, as would be the death of any maid, not because she took some sort of vow.” He bent over her and raised her wrist to his mouth, lapped at the open wound there.

“So you’re saying, William, that we could cause as much offense to God at the local workhouse as within these sanctified walls?”

“Precisely,” William said, pushing the now-dead woman away from him. “In fact, our very existence is an offense to the Almighty.”

Angelus rose and stalked towards his young protégé. “Well, then,” he said, “allow me to profane you this very moment…”

\- - - - -

“We don’t know why,” Angel told Illyria. “It just does.”

“She makes a point, though, doesn’t she?” Spike said. “One true faith and all that.”

“You think too much,” Angel said.

\- - - - -

Spike parked in one of the middle levels of the parking garage at the international terminal, leaned against the hood of the car and proceeded finishing off his last pack of smokes. In a day he’d have European cigs. It was really the only good thing about the trip, and he held onto it like a lifeline.

Angel joined him, took the cigarette out of Spike’s mouth and put it in his own. Spike glared briefly and tapped out another. Illyria watched from nearby.

A security cart pulled up, and Spike and Angel half-turned away.

“One of you guys Angel?” the guard asked, and he had all three’s full attention.

“I’m called Fishbulb,” he said. “I’m with the Quadrivium Society.”

\- - - - -

Fishbulb drove them and their bags past the terminal, past the security checkpoints, and through the food service loading area to a small jet plane. Spike watched the people they passed with interest.

“We aren’t gonna be stopped, are we?” he asked. “Heightened security and all that?”

“They’re not noticing us,” Fishbulb said. “That’s my talent. I have the ability to cloud people’s minds so they cannot see me.”

“Impressive,” Angel said. “So why don’t they call you The Shadow?”

“It was already taken,” Fishbulb said. “Some 15-year-old punk in Wichita who barely even posts anymore. But the talent’s handy. I mean, I’m not even a security guard. But Friendly Skies asked me for the favor.”

“Who’s Friendly Skies?” Illyria asked.

“You’ll meet her,” Fishbulb said. “In fact, I think that’s her up ahead.”

A stewardess waved from the bottom of a boarding staircase, and Fishbulb pulled up to her.

“We in time?” Fishbulb said.

“Plenty,” the stewardess answered. She turned to Angel, Spike, and Illyria. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m Friendly Skies and I’ll be your flight attendant for this morning’s non-stop transatlantic from Tampa to Paris. The flight will be departing at 9 am, but since sunrise is in about 45 minutes, we’ve arranged for special pre-boarding.”

“Cute,” Fishbulb said. “Are you gonna offer coffee, tea, or blood?”

Friendly Skies laughed, but it was the thin, fake laugh cultivated by those in the service industry.

“Do you have any bags?” she said.

Spike pulled out the canvas duffle filled with weapons, And Friendly Skies’s calm façade cracked. “Oh, Jesus,” she sighed.

“And I’m outta here,” Fishbulb said when all was unloaded.

“Thank you for your help,” Angel said, and the ersatz security guard drove off.

Friendly Skies was back to all business. “We’ll stow your things in the crew’s luggage compartment,” she said, leading them up the stairs and into the plane. “You’ll be in the last row. We’ve disabled the windows on the last three rows, and the flight is only about half-full, so chances are you’ll have the back section of the plane to yourselves. Even so, keep blankets handy, and I can take you into the rear crew area in an emergency.”

“I don’t know how to thank you for this,” Angel said.

“Yeah, er, not to be ungrateful or anything,” Spike said, “but won’t the rest of the crew be suspicious?”

Friendly Skies grinned. “Normally, yes,” she said, “but today you’re flying with Quadrivium Air.” She indicated the cockpit where the pilot and co-pilot were doing their pre-flight checks. 

“Hey,” said the pilot.

“Your captain this morning is BackInBlack,” Friendly Skies said. “And this is your co-pilot, whose handle I can’t pronounce.”

The co-pilot turned, looking impossibly young with curly red hair and freckles. “Hitokiri Battousai,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”

\- - - - -

Friendly Skies took them to the very back row, Angel and Spike in the two seats on one side of the aisle, Illyria in the single seat on the other side. Friendly Skies checked the window shades again, tapping one that seemed loose with a dried flower she took from her vest pocket and whispering “obdoditum.”

Spike touched her elbow. “You’re Wicca,” he said, surprised.

Friendly Skies nodded. “Yes,” she said. “So is BackInBlack. He noticed my pentagram necklace a few years ago and started requesting me for his flights. We usually do this Paris run a few times a week.”

“What about the co-pilot?” Spike asked, and Friendly Skies smiled.

“Now he is interesting,” she said. “He’s mildly telekinetic, though BackInBlack has been teaching him to expand his talent through meditation.”

She fetched them each a few extra blankets “in case” and went back to her pre-flight duties.

“We are fortunate that these people are able to help us,” Illyria said.

“Yeah, this has all been bloody convenient,” Spike said. “Maybe a little too convenient.”

“No, it’s encouraging,” Angel said. “I think maybe there is someone looking out for us.” And then he cried out, his back arched and his eyes rolled back as the vision hit him hard.

Angel heard Spike calling his name, felt two pairs of slim hands holding him down, felt the vibration of footsteps running down the aisle.

Then the vision itself: little girls, blond angels no more than three years old, screaming as something with tusks and tentacles ripped into their flesh.

“Delaware,” he gasped as the vision left him. “We have to get to Claymont, Delaware.”

Spike took advantage of Angel’s momentary disorientation and slapped him, hard. “Snap out of it!” he said sharply. “We’re going to Paris. Push these visions out of your mind!”

Tears were in Angel’s eyes. “I can’t,” he said.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell was that?” Friendly Skies demanded.

“Vision,” Spike said. “They come on him like that.”

Friendly Skies looked up the aisle. “He can’t do that during the flight,” she said. “Since 9/11 people are nervous wrecks, and you guys can’t call any attention to yourselves.”

“It won’t happen again,” Spike said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. 

And then Angel put the lie to his words as another vision hit.

This time there was a teenaged girl, lured into a temple of death by a coven of robed demons. “Idaho,” Angel said as he came to.

“You have to make him stop,” Friendly Skies said, her calmness crumbled. “We begin boarding in twenty minutes!”

“It’ll be okay,” Spike said, though his reserve was broken, too. “Oh, fuck,” he swore as Angel’s eyes rolled back a third time.

“We must find a way to immobilize him,” Illyria said, “and a way to silence his cries.”

Spike looked horrified. “We can’t. He’ll hurt himself.”

But Angel’s hand found his, Angel’s fingers encircled his wrist. “I’ll heal,” Angel croaked. “Do what you have to do.”

\- - - - -

With fangs and nails, Spike tore the airplane blankets into strips, and with Illyria’s and Friendly Skies’s help, tied Angel’s arms, legs, and torso to the seat. Luckily, the visions also depleted his strength, and soon enough he was so tightly bound he could only tremble.

Spike took one long strip and tied it into a knot. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Just do it,” Angel said, and Spike jammed the knot into his mouth, bound the strips around his head.

They draped Angel in more blankets until only his shadowed eyes were visible. “What will we tell the other passengers?” Friendly Skies asked.

Spike stared in Angel’s pain-filled eyes. “Tell them… he’s been burned,” he said.

\- - - - -

Friendly Skies explained over the airplane intercom that the passengers in the back row were a fireman on his way to a burn-clinic in Paris accompanied by his brother and sister. She asked them to try not to disturb them as they walked down the aisle, and thanked them for their understanding.

As they flew, Spike slipped his hand into the blankets, found Angel’s hand, immobilized against the armrest, and gently stroked his fingers. “We’ll get through this,” he said, and Angel nodded weakly.

A hand fell on Spike’s shoulder and he flinched, quickly turned, saw an elderly woman in the aisle beside them. “I don’t mean to disturb you,” she stage-whispered. “But I wanted to tell your brother what a brave young man he is, and to wish you all the best of luck.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Spike said, and the woman moved on. Spike leaned close to Angel’s ear. “You are brave,” he said. “Braver than me.”

\- - - - -

They landed at Charles de Gaulle in a light rain just after dusk. Friendly Skies, BackInBlack, and Hitokiri Battousai hurried the passengers off as quickly as they could and came back as Spike was tearing Angel’s bonds loose.

“You’re on your own from here,” BackInBlack said. “We didn’t have a contact here to get you out, so you’ll have to make a run for it.”

Hitokiri Battousai handed them their bags. “We’re sorry we can’t do more.”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Angel gasped. His visions had subsided somewhere over the mid-Atlantic, but they’d left him weak and aching.

Hitokiri Battousai handed them a packet of Euros. “Take this and get a taxi to Notre Dame. Your contact there is Dynamo.”

BackInBlack helped Spike get Angel to his feet, and they made their way to the exit. “Good luck,” he said.

\- - - - -

They managed to make it out without incident, though Angel suspected there’d be some sort of alert and official inquiry when they found a section of chain-link fence torn loose. Sometimes Spike’s casual violence even impressed Angel.

They found a taxi quickly, asked for Notre Dame. The driver commented on the slightly old-fashioned manner of Angel’s French, guessed he was Canadian, and Angel did not correct him.

Notre Dame was more magnificent than Angel had ever seen, having not been back to Paris since the advent of plentiful electric light. Its stone faces, illuminated by enormous flood-lights, rose out of the darkness, and the stained-glass rose window glowed like a beacon. Angel felt his hands shake, and he wasn’t sure if it was the after-effect of the visions, or the memory of all the churches he had willfully defiled all those years ago.

“They are closed for the day,” the driver told them. “Do you want me to wait for you?”

“No, we’re meeting friends,” Angel said. “Our flight was late, but they should be here soon.”

The driver shrugged, took their money, and drove away.

Spike regarded the edifice. “It just goes from bad to worse,” he muttered. He patted his pockets for cigarettes, realized he’d smoked them all, and paced impatiently.

From the shadows at the base of the wall, a figure coalesced out of the darkness. Angel gave a start when he saw her, then realized that of course she would be one of the Quadrivium Society. “Gwen. It’s good to see you again,” he said.

She smiled, and Angel was touched by the rare expression of joy. “You came,” she said. “I’m so happy to see you all. Come with me, and meet Sister Michael.” She lowered her eyes, aware what she was about to say sounded incredible. “She’s going to change the world,” she said.

“I’d love to meet her,” Angel said, and he lifted his bag. He reached back to take Spike’s hand, stopped when it was not taken.

Spike had a small, sad smile on his face. “I can’t go in, Angel,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Angel put the bag down, took Spike’s face in his hands. “I understand,” he said. “But I need to know what’s happening here.”

Spike closed his eyes, leaned his cheek into Angel’s touch. “I know,” he said.

Angel leaned down and they kissed, gently, longingly.

“I’ll be back at sunset,” Spike promised. He lifted his bag and handed it to Angel. “Better hold onto this.”

“Where are you going?”

“Let me worry about that.”

“Do you need any money?”

Spike grinned. “Already got it,” he said.

Angel backed quickly away to join Gwen and Illyria. “Spike, I…”

“Sunset,” Spike said, and he turned and walked back into the city.


	13. After: Weekend of Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paris, where everything changes.

Spike started awake, disoriented and slightly sick, in the opulent Astaroth Suite above the Palais d’Enfer Casino in La Poche du Diable, Paris’s notorious Hell District. The casino was run by the T’Votth tribe, a family of demons who’d controlled this quarter of La Poche du Diable since the time of the House of Bourbon, and though they’d earned their power preying on those made weak by vice, Spike had to admit they ran a very posh establishment.

He didn’t remember much after his arrival at Palais d’Enfer, other than drinking a lot of otter’s-blood cocktails and playing a lot of rondolet, but he surmised he must have won, and won big, to be treated to a suite this size. In fact, the last time he’d been comped a suite by the T’Votths, he and Dru had won the gold rings right out of their opponent’s nose. Of course, he’d lost everything the next night on three bets, and he and Dru’d been out on their firm, shapely bums, but it had been good times, nonetheless.

Spike stretched himself out on the luxuriously soft mattress, fully spread-eagled and still not reaching the edge anywhere. 

Too big, he thought. Angel should be here. 

\- - - - -

Gwen led Angel and Illyria into the cathedral, down a narrow stone staircase, deep into the earth. “We’re going to the cells where the priests lived hundreds of years ago,” Gwen said. “Sister Michael lives here. She rarely speaks, and spends nine hours a day in prayer.”

They walked down a stone passage so tight Angel found himself turned sideways at points, lit only by votives every twenty feet or so. They came to Sister Michael’s cell, little more than a hollow in the wall. A row of votives flickered on one side, and the nun herself knelt before a primitive altar: a rough olivewood cross and a Madonna of unadorned clay.

After Gwen’s description, Angel had expected an ancient ascetic, but a woman no older than twenty-five looked up from her meditations.

“Sister, may I present Angel,” Gwen said. Angel stared in barely-hidden horror, every atrocity he’d ever visited upon a bride of the church coming to his mind to torment him.

“Come closer,” Sister Michael said, and Angel lowered himself to one knee. The nun reached out one hand to touch his face, and Angel gave a hiss and pulled back. Sister Michael blushed.

“I apologize,” she said. “I forgot you weren’t able to touch the absolved. My English is not very good.” She reached out again, took Angel’s hand, but this time there was no pain.

“That was a lie,” Gwen explained. “Her English is excellent.” She indicated Illyria. “And this is the old one,” she said.

Illyria came closer, her head tilted curiously. “I have never seen such power as yours,” she said. “It is so pure. Uncorrupted.”

Sister Michael lowered her eyes demurely. “I am pleased to hear that,” she said. “But come, I have many things to explain.”

\- - - - -

Spike climbed to his feet, looked around the room, and groaned. Six empty champagne bottles were in a neat row on the bar, the bottom of the sunken bathtub was covered with a layer of Euros, and in the middle of the coffee table, under a halogen ceiling spot, was an emerald ring the size of a bottle-cap. Then he remembered the night before.

He’d been playing rondolet. He’d been betting boldly, and the cards and wheel had both been in his favor. He’d increased his money thirty-fold, been comped his suite and escorted upstairs by two beautiful women. They’d plied him with the champagne, then offered their own charms.

Incredibly drunk, he’d rebuffed them, confessing his love for another, but the house-girls remained cool businesswomen to the last, summoning one of the casino merchants to display a selection of wares so Spike could buy his paramour a gift.

Picking up the ring Spike thought, What a stupid waste. Sure, they were fine on money for now, but who knew what tomorrow would bring? He should have stayed sober and saved the money.

And yet… and yet, it was a beautiful thing: a deep, true green mounted in gold filigree, woven into a pattern of Celtic knots. Spike sighed, put it back in the velvet box, and stashed it inside his pocket.

Then he began to gather up the money in the tub.

\- - - - -

Sister Michael, Angel, Illyria, and Gwen knelt in a circle on the stone floor. Their heads were bent close together, as though they might be overheard, and the nun began to speak. “The paths of the gateways are four-fold,” she said. “Up and down, left and right, to and fro, back and forth. Each direction must be closed individually, at a different point on the wheel, and in each case, there must be an expenditure of energy.”

“Tomorrow, we will close up and down,” Gwen explained. “We’ll need you and Spike to retrieve an artifact from an antique dealer in one of the right back galleries. It’s big, but the two of you should be able to handle it.”

“How will you supply the energy?” Illyria said.

Sister Michael looked at Gwen, who smiled serenely. “My power,” she said. “I’ll give up all of it.”

“Gwen…”

“I’ll be a normal girl, Angel. It’s what I want. What I’ve always wanted.”

Angel looked into her eyes, shining with hope in the candlelight. “Sounds like you have things covered,” he said. “But why are we here?”

Sister Michael took Angel’s hand in her own. “When I pray, my mind is open to the holy spirit,” she said. “It reveals what we must do to close the gateways, and banish this evil to its home planes. For many months, I have seen your face, heard your name, and then God brought Gwen to us.” She touched the thief’s face briefly. “I do not know what your part in this will be, Angel, but I know you are meant to be here.”

\- - - - -

Gwen took Angel and Illyria to another part of the cavern beneath Notre Dame, where three narrow cots stood side-by-side, and Angel felt his heart squeeze tight. “I’ll come for you just before sunset,” she said, “so you can meet with Spike above.”

Angel nodded his thanks, then said, “how long have you been here, Gwen?”

“Since soon after I left L.A. I have an apartment overlooking the Eiffel Tower.” She shrugged. “Ill-gotten gains go pretty far, as it turns out.”

“And how long have you been working with Sister Michael?”

She shrugged again. “Maybe two months. Some people in the Quadrivium society put me in touch with her.”

Angel frowned. “So… God didn’t exactly bring you to her.”

Gwen smirked. “That depends on your point-of-view, I guess.”

Angel caught her arm, shook it angrily. “And what’s your point-of-view, Gwen? Are we being directed by God?”

Crackles of blue electric charge formed around Gwen’s fingers. “Let me go,” she said calmly, and Angel pulled his hand back. “There is a greater power at work,” she said. “Some in the Society call it God, or Allah, or Krishna. A few of the little geeks call it The Force.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and crossed her arms. “Personally, I think it’s the power of the collective unconscious of all those involved. Just think of all that power stripped of the artifice we put on ourselves just to get through the day. We even pick our own names. Together we have no limits. We’re not seeing the future; we’re making it.”

She turned to leave, then looked back over her shoulder. “I’ll see you in about twelve hours,” she said.

Angel lay on his back, tucked his hands behind his head. “What do you think it is?” he said. “You’re an ancient god. Tell me where you think all this is coming from.”

Illyria frowned. “I do not know,” she said. “The more I see of this world, the stranger it seems to me. When I first awoke in this form, I thought of you as no more than insects.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I think you mentioned that at the time.”

“You seemed so insignificant. Short, fragile lives filled with suffering and misery. Wesley tried to explain about love, but I did not know what he meant. Now I have seen love for one’s mate, love for one’s child, I have felt the power of it. Now here, in this place, I have felt love so great that humans would risk their lives for the benefit of strangers yet unborn.”

“They want to change the world for the better. Is that so surprising?”

“A world filled with hate, and pain,” Illyria said. “A world which, if they succeed, will never be aware of their sacrifice.” She waved one hand as if searching the air for the answer. “It is foolish. Suicidal. It should make you weak. By all reason it should make you… nothing. And yet it only brings more and more power to you.”

She had worked herself up, now, and Angel watched her pace with frustration. “I have misunderstood everything,” she said. “I must learn why this power is channeled this way.”

“It’s not something you can learn,” Angel said. “You have to feel it.”

She stopped pacing, sat on her cot and crossed her legs. “I must consider this,” she said, and closed her eyes. 

Angel took the pillow from the third bed and wrapped it in his arms. Sleep evaded him for some time.

\- - - - -

Angel could not contain his joy at seeing Spike waiting for him at the end of the bridge, and he ran the last fifty yards to gather the younger vampire to him, to kiss his face and hair.

“Steady on, you big poof. It was only one day,” Spike said, but his voice was gentle, and he wound his fingers into Angel’s hair. “This is getting long,” he said.

Angel twisted one of Spike’s curls around one finger. “Yours, too,” he said. “Where did you stay? I missed you so much.”

“Well, that’s a funny story,” Spike said.

“Tell me while we walk,” Angel said. “We need to get to this antique shop before they close.”

They started walking, their hands unconsciously clasped. “I went to La Poche du Diable, one of the casinos there, Palais d’Enfer.”

Angel smiled. “I remember it,” he said. “Old T’Votth-run house. I didn’t think I’d ever taken you there, though.”

“You didn’t,” Spike said. “You wouldn’t let me gamble, then, remember? Said I didn’t have the temperament for it.”

“As I recall, that was after I ended up paying off 4,500 pounds’ worth of horse-racing and card markers for you,” Angel said. “But seeing as all your limbs are intact, I presume you’ve improved over the years.”

“Come out ahead, anyway,” Spike said vaguely. “What about you, though? What’d you find out?”

“Not much,” Angel said. “It’s all so cryptic. For starters, closing the gateways is a four-step process; I thought she meant four directions, but one of them is up-down, so who knows.”

“It’s probably the four dimensions,” Spike said. “There must be a gateway for each one.”

“There are hundreds of dimensions, Spike.”

“Not alternate dimensions, you nit. Dimensions in space. Well, plus time. Which might be spatial, according to some theories…”

“What are you talking about?”

“Okay, think about a cube,” Spike said, trying to suggest one in front of him with his hands. “It exists in three spatial dimensions: height, width, and depth, right?”

“Okay.”

“But it also exists in time, which is the fourth dimension.”

Angel frowned. “Um, okay.”

“Now, when we talk about hell dimensions, or alternate dimensions, or whatever,” Spike went on, “what we’re really talking about are parallel planes, where one dimension of it is parallel to ours. So if you can punch through the point where they meet each other, you can go across.”

“How do you know all this?”

Spike looked embarrassed. “I, uh, watched a lot of the Einstein Channel,” he said. “You know, back in the chip days. Wasn’t much of a leap to apply quantum theory to metaphysics, you know. Ran a few ideas past Rupert Giles, and he thought they were pretty sound.”

Angel grinned, and wrapped an arm over Spike’s shoulder. “I had no idea,” he said. “You’re a genius.”

“Hardly,” Spike said. “It’s not like I’m writing papers for the Watcher’s Journal. Makes sense, though.”

“Okay, so how do the gateways close, then?”

Spike smiled. “It’s sort of a work in progress,” he said, then laughed. “I’m dying to find out, though.”

\- - - - -

They received the artifact, already packed and crated, at a shop called Bête Noire, tucked in a quiet corner of the famous shopping arcades. They took it right out the back door and into one of the sewer accesses, headed towards Les Jardins de Tuileries.

They emerged not far from the darkened park, spotted the white-clad Sister Michael among a group of flickering candles. Angel and Spike approached her, found her flanked by Illyria and Gwen. Candles in jars outlined a circle on the ground.

“Put the box down there,” the nun said, pointing to a patch of grass, and two men came forward out of the darkness with crowbars.

Spike moved against Angel’s side. “There are people all around us,” he said.

“Quadrivium Society,” Angel said. “They’re guarding the perimeter, making sure we aren’t interrupted.”

The crate was opened, paper and straw tossed aside and an elongated diamond-shaped stone revealed. Sister Michael pointed to Angel and Spike. “Lift it up,” she said, “and carry it over into the circle.”

The vampires did so, but when they crossed the circle’s perimeter the stone lifted out of their hands, levitating up on its end and moving to the circle’s center, where it began to slowly rotate. Angel and Spike backed away, heard the two crowbar men retreat back into the shadows. Sister Michael approached the stone and spread her arms. The stone began to glow, a soft pink that grew brighter while the rotation increased in speed.

“Gwen. Come closer, child,” the nun said, and Gwen nearly bounced to her side. Sister Michael took her hand and began chanting in a language that was clearly ancient.

Angel reached out and pulled Spike close to him.

The stone spun faster and faster, the glow brightening to a white so blazing it was hard to look at, and Sister Michael’s voice rose to a shout as she concluded her chant. There was a massive crack, and the rock split open, sending forth a bolt of energy.

The bolt passed between Sister Michael and Gwen, knocking them both onto their backs, and slammed directly into Illyria’s chest. She was propelled back through the air, bowling over several potted trees as she went, and at last coming to rest across a row of hedges. Angel and Spike ran to her aid.

A shouted, “don’t touch me,” stopped them, and Illyria climbed to her feet.

Gone was the bob-haired Goth-girl they’d grown used to in the previous weeks. Gone, too, was the blue-haired demigod they’d known in Los Angeles. Instead was the visage of their lost friend, naked, with only her brown hair to cover her. She fluttered her fingers above her breastbone. “Something… something is wrong,” she said.

Spike swallowed hard, took a step closer. “Fred?”

The girl turned a hateful glare on him. “Fred’s memories are gone. My eyes are clouded, my senses dulled. Something horrible has happened to me.”

“The Holy Spirit has chosen you,” Sister Michael said, approaching them. “Your power was used to seal the gateways. You are human, now, child.”

With a cry of anguish, Illyria crumpled to the ground, while behind them, Gwen began to sob.

\- - - - -

Angel walked through the church courtyard with Illyria beside him. They walked slowly, as the newly reborn girl was still unsteady on her feet, and Angel held his hands behind him, though he longed to put his arms around her. He reminded himself that Illyria wouldn’t understand that he was trying to comfort her, so he remained still.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Angel said.

“It would jeopardize your plan if I were to travel with you,” Illyria said. “And while I am not convinced that Sister Michael’s God has ‘chosen’ me, I must consider there are powerful forces around me. I think this is where I must try to find my place in the world.”

Angel stopped and looked down at the seemingly fragile woman beside him. “I’m very proud of you,” he said.

Illyria regarded him curiously for several long moments, as though struggling to understand his meaning. “Thank you,” she offered at last.

\- - - - -

Angel and Spike and Gwen rode the elevator to the private suite that was Gwen’s home in Paris. The doors slid open to reveal an opulently decorated salon filled with velvet, satin, and silk. An enormous picture window looked out on the Eiffel Tower and the glittering city beyond. “Wow,” Spike said, and he took a tentative step into the room. “I mean, wow!”

Gwen ignored him and crossed to the wet bar, poured herself a tall glass. “Make yourself at home,” she said. “Guest rooms are through the kitchen. I’ll have blood brought in tomorrow.”

Spike eagerly retreated, the gleam in his eye making his intentions clear, but Angel lingered. “Are you alright?” he asked Gwen.

“I will be,” she said. “But not yet. I need to be alone now.”

Angel nodded, understanding the feeling all too well, and headed for the guest rooms himself.

Spike had already stripped down and cocooned himself in the large canopy bed, and was watching the door anxiously when Angel entered. Angel began to undress himself, laughing when Spike entreated him to go faster. He slid under the silk coverlet alongside Spike and gathered him into his arms.

Spike raised one hand to Angel’s lips, halting him, and ignored Angel’s annoyed frown. “I’ve a surprise,” he said, almost shy, and he pulled the velvet box from beneath the pillow. Angel’s annoyance turned to curiosity, and he watched as Spike revealed the emerald ring.

“I know I shouldn’t have wasted the money,” Spike said, “but I wasn’t really thinking clearly…”

“It’s beautiful,” Angel said, and Spike’s face broke with relief.

“Do you really like it?”

“I do,” Angel said, and he took the box to study it more closely. “aren’t you going to put it on me?” he asked after a moment.

He didn’t miss the look of stunned happiness before Spike remembered himself and rolled his eyes with a muttered “ponce.” But Spike did take the ring and slip it onto Angel’s left hand.

“It was too much…” Spike began, but Angel shushed him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’re still ahead on the money. And I like wearing something you’ve given me.” He pulled Spike back into his arms, kissed him, tangled their legs together, and Spike wrapped his arms around Angel’s body.

“And the best part,” Angel whispered into Spike’s ear, a smile in his voice, “I haven’t had a vision since we got to France.”

“Shut up,” Spike hissed, unamused. “And fuck me, before they decide it’s time to pull your strings again.”

Angel put his hands on Spike’s shoulders, slammed him onto his back. “Gladly,” he growled.

“Oh, yeah,” Spike said, and he spread his arms wide and hooked one leg around Angel’s hips. Angel bent down, nuzzled and kissed the soft flesh under Spike’s jaw.

Spike’s eyes fell closed, and he sighed.


	14. After: The News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Demon clan takes its revenge.

Angel’s eyes fluttered open, and he realized he was warm, rested, full, and he had no pain. He also realized that Spike was down beneath the blankets, waking him in a most pleasurable way. He lifted the edge of the coverlet, looked down on the top of Spike’s head, bobbing at his waist, reached down and tangled his fingers in the dirty-blond curls. 

Spike increased the pressure with his lips, stroked up and down with his tongue. Angel growled with pleasure and Spike started humming low in the back of his throat.

Angel gave a shout as he came.

\- - - - -

They kissed deeply, taking full advantage of not needing to breathe, twining their tongues together. Their hands roamed over one another’s skin, soothing, reassuring, gently loving.

After, Spike let himself be enfolded in Angel’s strong arms, let himself, for awhile, feel protected and cherished.

\- - - - -

The light behind the drapes was a deep orange; the sun was nearly set.

Spike rested on Angel’s chest, while Angel idly stroked his hair, just long enough to start to curl.

“We should think about getting up,” Angel said.

“I am thinking about it,” Spike said.

They lay together for several minutes, until Spike asked, “so what now?”

“I don’t know,” Angel said thoughtfully. “I guess we try and find out where we need to go to close the next gateway.”

“One down, three to go,” Spike said.

“Sounds simple.”

“I doubt it will be.”

They lay still a bit longer.

“Damn it,” Angel said finally, pulling away and out of bed. “I need to find out what’s going on.”

Spike caught hold of Angel’s wrist, held him a moment. “Shower first?” he suggested, and Angel smiled fondly.

“Okay,” he agreed.

\- - - - -

Gwen was more like Angel remembered her when he tracked her down in her well-equipped study: tougher, harder, more dangerous. He felt sorry for her. As he came closer he noted that although the “LISA” unit was clearly visible, she wore heavy black-rubber gloves and typed with two glass rods.

“I thought you could control the electricity,” he said.

“I can, mostly,” Gwen answered, distracted, “but high-tech electronics are a little more sensitive to the random static shock than people are.” She paged down the screen, scanning the subject lines, and Angel pulled a chair up beside her.

“So where do we go next?”

“That’s a matter of some discussion,” she said. “East, they seem to agree, but they’re trying to coordinate among the prophecies, portents, visions, how the planets line up. You name it.”

“What’s Captain Crewe think?”

“He doesn’t seem to have weighed in an opinion, which is why there’s such chaos.” She clicked over into her mailbox. “Honestly, until we hear from him, there isn’t gonna be a consensus. Why don’t you and Spike just relax. Even if we do get a location, they’re all pretty sure the next window is at least three weeks out.”

Angel blew out a breath. “Time off,” he said. “Been a long time since we had that.”

Gwen turned to him, forced a smile. “You’re in Paris, Angel. Go. Have fun. Do the whole tourist thing.”

Angel stood up. “Yeah. Maybe we will.”

“Blood’s in the fridge,” Gwen said, and she turned back to the screen.

Angel found Spike waiting just outside the door. “I agree with the girl,” Spike said.

Angel glanced out at the view of the city, the Eiffel Tower glowing in the last gold of the twilight, and Paris spread like a glittering train below. “What if the visions come back? Out there, with people all around us.”

Spike took Angel’s hands, made Angel look at him. “It won’t,” he said.

Angel shook his head. “I’m scared,” he said quietly, and Spike felt his own blood chill as he remembered Captain Crewe’s warning: 

“It will drive Angel to madness… In another life, it’s happened already.”

“You listen to me,” Spike said. “You can’t live in fear. You taught me that. You’re the bravest vampire… the bravest *man* I’ve ever known. If the visions hit… we’ll deal with it.” Spike’s voice grew gentle. “I’ll be with you. We’ll be okay.”

Angel stared into Spike’s eyes for a long moment. “Okay,” he said at last.

\- - - - -

When they reached the Tower’s highest observation deck, it was full darkness. The tourists with children were just finishing their day, and the couples were coming out. Spike, still in his overalls, stood near the railing, his arms crossed, feeling awkward.

Angel came to him, turned him to look out over the city, put an arm around his shoulders. “Fearless,” he whispered into Spike’s ear, and hugged him close.

Spike put his arms around Angel’s waist and let his eyes fall closed. It felt, for a moment, as if they were the only two creatures in all the world, and they had existed in it forever, and Spike did not want the moment to ever end.

He felt Angel’s lips at his ear again, the slightest movement of air as Angel drew in his breath, and he was frozen, a point fixed in the universe as stars and galaxies whirled around him.

“I love you,” Angel said.

\- - - - -

And everything began to move at once.

Spike was spinning, falling, flying. By God, it felt as though his heart began to beat.

Angel touched the corner of Spike’s eye, caught the teardrop that clung to his eyelashes. “I love you,” he repeated, then, “my William, I should have told you so long ago.”

Spike forced himself to open his eyes, to assure himself this wasn’t a dream, that it was Angel, *his* Angel, and they were here, in Paris, on an evening in September, with the real sky above them and the real earth below.

“Angel,” he said, his voice half-choked, then again, “Angel.” He swallowed hard, his eyes blinked quickly, several times. “I love you, too. I’ve wanted to tell, I’ve tried… I love you. Angel… Angel…”

And Angel’s lips found his, and he was folding, collapsing, his whole being focused into the point where one touched the other.

It was a kiss like he had never had, so fully and completely loving he felt as though some of Angel went into his body and burned inside him. It was perfect, or as close as he had ever hoped for.

\- - - - -

They were in the City of Light, strolling slowly down the broad boulevard. Angel’s arm was around Spike’s shoulder, their heads bent together, and they talked of everything and nothing.

“When this is over, we’ll go somewhere alone, just us two,” Angel said, and Spike wanted to believe it would happen. Angel admired again the ring Spike had given him, and declared, “I want to get something for you. I want you to wear something I’ve gotten you. What do you want? Anything, and it’s yours.”

Spike considered it. “I want a red, white, and blue t-shirt,” he said, “that says ‘Paris’ in gold with a picture of the Eiffel Tower.”

Angel laughed. “Seriously?”

Spike feigned annoyance. “This is the best day of my life, Angel. I want to celebrate it.”

He could see Angel’s heart melting. “Okay,” Angel said. He looked around, spotted a souvenir kiosk at the end of the street decorated with tiny white lights. He kissed Spike quickly. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and began jogging toward it.

The T’Votth came out of the side street like a stampede of horses, and they had overwhelmed and were dragging Angel off before Spike could even move.

Spike started running, screaming after them, but they raced ahead through the darkened streets. “It’s me you want,” Spike shouted. “I won the money.”

He threw himself at the hindmost demon, was shrugged off as if he were nothing, tumbled over three times in the street. He was on his feet again in an instant, threw himself on the demon’s back again, and this time he was slammed to the ground and held with a paw the size of a car tire.

“Stay down,” the demon said.

“It’s not him,” Spike said. “Leave him out of this.”

“Because of him, we are trapped here,” the T’Votth snarled. “He will die slow, and painfully.”

It shoved Spike down hard against the pavement, slamming his head back and cracking his ribcage, and then it was off and running again.

Spike leapt up, biting off a scream of pain, and he was following, a block behind now. The demons came to a bridge, crossed to the halfway point. Spike, still running, saw Angel lifted above them. He was bound with chains and iron weights.

“No!” Spike shouted, but Angel was flung through the air and off the bridge. He hit the water and vanished beneath, only the widening circle of ripples an indication he had gone in. The T’Votth scattered in all directions.

Spike went over the guardrail without breaking stride, and went straight down.

Spike moved through the murky darkness. He’d never learned to swim while alive, due to a lifelong fear of water, and even after becoming a vampire, he often forgot he had no need to breathe and would take panicked breaths when held under. Now he moved clumsily, flailing his arms in all directions.

The light from the city filtered down in yellow beams, and Spike found himself thinking of sunlight shining in through the dusty air of his crypt, back in Sunnydale.

He forced himself to move slowly, methodically telling himself that Angel wouldn’t, couldn’t drown. That he would be fine until Spike found him.

It seemed like hours passed in that dark silence, when a shifting line of light caught a flash of emerald green. Spike kicked toward it, reaching blindly out in front of him, and he found the broad, rough hands he would know until true death found him. He grasped them tight, felt his way down to the shoulder, and began to untangle the chains wound around the torso.

It was a tedious, slow-going process, pulling the heavy lengths through and around, and Spike had to stop a few times when his arms began to shake, but in those moments he clung to Angel’s hand, one finger on the emerald ring.

Finally the last loop pulled free, and Spike put his arms around Angel’s waist, held tight and kicked for the surface. They broke into the air, and Spike gulped in breaths, held Angel so he floated face up, swam for the shore. As his feet found purchase on the muddy bottom, he pulled Angel… his lover… close against him, and Angel took his own choked gasp of air.

Spike fought down tears of relief – he didn’t have time for the indulgence – and dragged Angel onto the bank. Hands shaking, Spike checked Angel’s body for injury, found he was repeating Angel’s name with trembling voice.

He found the tear through the shoulder of Angel’s flowered shirt, tore it back, found the slender shaft of wood jabbed into the top of Angel’s pectoral muscle, and laughed with relief. 

“They didn’t hit it. Angel. They didn’t hit your heart.”

“They didn’t have to,” Angel managed, and he passed out again.

\- - - - -

Spike started shouting Gwen’s name before they were out of the elevator, half-carrying, half-dragging Angel into the apartment.

“Oh, God,” she said. “What happened?”

“Angel was attacked,” Spike said as he carried Angel into the bed they shared and laid him down. “Retribution for closing the portals.”

Gwen went white. “Is he injured?”

Spike was trying to undo Angel’s wet clothes, but he couldn’t make his hands stop shaking. “He’s been poisoned,” he said, then roared in frustration and ripped the clothes open and away, bundled the bedclothes around Angel’s naked body. “He has… he has a fever. I’ve never heard of a vampire with a fever.” He reluctantly stepped away from the bed, began to rummage for the book-of-all-books. “I need to find what can do this.”

Angel’s eyelids fluttered, and a nearly soundless “Spike” was spoken. Spike was at his side in an instant. “I know what it is,” Angel said, his voice a thin whisper. “It’s happened before.”

“How do I cure it?” Spike said quickly, knowing Angel had no strength for conversation. 

He had to put his ear to Angel’s lips for the answer.

\- - - - -

“Watch him,” Spike said. “I’m going to use your phone.”

“There’s one in the hall,” Gwen said, and Spike stepped out, leaving the door open. He dialed down to the front desk.

“I need an international operator,” he said, and there was a soft click and a ring as the line transferred. “I need a number, in Bath, England. I need to reach a Mr. Rupert Giles…”

\- - - - -

Twenty minutes later, Spike returned to the bedroom and tried to make Angel more comfortable, Gwen giving what assistance she could. “You need to change, too,” she said when Spike at last reached the point where it seemed he could do no more.

He looked down at his soaked clothes and the helplessly at Gwen. “I don’t want to leave…”

“I’ll bring some towels,” she said. “And I think I have a t-shirt and drawstring pants that will fit you.”

“Thank you,” Spike said, and he went to wait at Angel’s side until she returned.


	15. After: The Genesis Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel is dying. Can Spike be convincing enough to save his life?

“Spike…”

Angel’s voice was weak, little more than a whisper, but Spike jolted awake instantly, leaned across the bed. “I’m here,” he said. “What do you need?”

“Did you…” Angel swallowed, trying to find his voice. “Did you call Giles?”

“Yes. He remembered. He’ll have your cure here in no time, don’t you worry.”

“Yes,” Angel agreed, then gave a small smile. “I’ll bet that conversation went well. What did you say?”

\- - - - -

“Spike?” Giles’s voice sounded tinny and distant. “Good lord, we didn’t think you’d survived that last battle in Los Angeles.”

Hoped we hadn’t, don’t you mean, it was on the tip of Spike’s tongue to say, but he knew Angel’s life depended on this man’s goodwill, and he bit the words back. “We’ve been lying low,” Spike said. “We’re in Paris.”

“Paris! How long have you been there?”

“Just a few days… er, listen, Rupert, there’s been some trouble. It’s Angel… he’s …”

“Angel? What’s happened?”

“He was attacked, and there was this poison. He said he’s been dosed before, and he needs Slayer’s blood to cure him. And I was thinking, seeing as you have a few hundred at your disposal, you might see your way clear to send a dozen or so our way.”

There was a lengthy pause. “Spike, I don’t…”

“You have to do this, Rupert,” Spike said sharply. “I’ll pay you back however you like. I swear it. I’ll never ask for another favor…”

“Spike, I…”

“Rupert, please,” Spike said. “I love him.”

There was more silence, then a shocked, “you *love* him?!”

“And he loves me,” Spike said quietly, “which is rather a first for me, so just imagine my desperation.”

Silence. “No promises, Spike, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Please,” Spike begged, but the line was already dead.

\- - - - -

“Just told him you were in trouble,” Spike said cheerily. “Said he’d have some girls here in a few hours.”

“Good,” Angel said, his eyes starting to close.

Spike reached across and took his hand.

\- - - - -

“Buffy!” Angel’s voice was panicked, and Spike woke with a cry, running his hands over Angel’s body as though to drive off the demons that tormented him. Angel grabbed one of Spike’s hands with surprising strength, repeated, “Buffy,” with quiet gentleness.

“She… I…” Spike began, but Angel shushed him.

“Don’t,” he said. “I know you’ve heard, or guessed. It must be so obvious… You know I love you. We both do. Maybe that’s what brought us together. But you can’t make a life with a vampire. Not you, Buffy. And I love Spike, too. I know you see that.”

Spike gave a small gasp. “Angel, I…”

Angel blinked several times. “Spike…”

Spike pulled his hand away, smoothed the blankets. “Yes, I’m here,” he said.

“I… I thought Buffy was here.” He turned his head to look around the room. “Did she come?”

“No,” Spike said. “You were dreaming.”

\- - - - -

Spike didn’t sleep, just sat up by the bed and watched. He tried not to think of the times he’d done this with Dru, when the madness came on her hard, and definitely didn’t think about what would happen if Giles couldn’t, wouldn’t send anyone to help them.

Buffy would come, Spike told himself. Faith would come. And between the two of them, there’d be more than enough blood to cure Angel.

But that was assuming Giles told them, and with that old fox, there was no assuming anything of the kind. And now he was back to not thinking.

“Darla, love, why are ye so distressed,” Angel said, a bit of the brogue creeping into his voice, and Spike recoiled back from the bed.

“Now, darlin‘, don’t be like that. Ye know I missed ye.” Angel appeared to be listening to something, and Spike sat perfectly still, awaiting the next revelation.

“The boy?” Angel said, then gave a nervous giggle. “No, we haven’t… no, he’s nothing more than a trifle, Darla. No need to even ask him, just leave him and Dru in peace.” Angel giggled again, then grew very serious. “Ye’re not going to beat him, love, I forbid it.” 

Spike frowned, trying to place this incident in his memory, but he could not recall a time when Darla attended to his punishment.

Then Angel gave a small whimper of fear or pain. “Beat me, then,” he said. “But I won’t let ye punish the boy for my feelings about him.”

Spike reached out, gave Angel a shake and spoke his name, and Angel seemed to wake. “Oh, William,” he said gently. “Ye haven’t seen Darla, now, have ye?” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Ye’d do best to avoid her, boy. She’s in a powerful temper.” He giggled again. “But meet me in the kitchen when she goes to hunt, and we’ll have a bit of rough, eh?”

Spike felt an ache in the pit of his stomach; Angel was slipping from him. 

“Promise me,” Angel whispered, and Spike whispered back,

“I promise.”

\- - - - -

When Angel woke again, his eyes were clear. “Spike,” he said, reaching for his hand. “How long was I asleep?”

And this passing into lucidity terrified Spike most of all.

“A… a few hours,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Angel closed and opened his eyes with almost comic slowness. “The parts I can feel hurt,” he said.

“You should… you should rest,” Spike said. 

“No, I don’t want to be asleep. I don’t want to miss being with you.”

Spike squeezed his eyes shut. “Okay,” he said.

“Tell me one of your poems,” Angel said. “Have you written any new ones?”

“I… a few,” Spike said. “They got left behind.”

“A pity,” Angel said. “I’d have liked to hear them.”

“They were horrible,” Spike confessed. “Maudlin, sentimental things…”

“You always wrote from the heart,” Angel said. “The words weren’t important, but the feeling behind them…”

“I wrote some about you,” Spike blurted, and Angel smiled weakly. “You know, once we’d…”

“I know.”

“I wrote one where I compared you to a cat,” Spike said, trying to mask his eagerness with a light tone. “The barely-controlled power in your body, how you waited patiently for your prey. How you…” Spike lowered his voice, embarrassed. “How I was afraid I was being toyed with.”

“I’ve really screwed you up, haven’t I?” Angel said with a startling flash of self-insight.

“Not just you,” Spike said. “Did a right good job on myself, if we’re being honest.”

“What else did you write?”

“Some, you know…” Spike lowered his voice again. “Well, I wrote this one. Um, there was this couplet I particularly liked… From earth you raised me, gave me form; To stand beside you, take your part; Our force the fury of the storm; To match the passion in my heart.”

Angel gave a small, fond smile. “That’s sweet.”

“No, it sucks,” Spike said. “I just… I look for the words…”

The bedroom door opened and Gwen leaned in. “Your friends are here,” she said.

“Oh, thank God,” Spike said, getting to his feet. “Rupert, I’m so…”

And Xander Harris stepped into the room.

Spike leaned across Angel’s body protectively. “What are you doing here?”

“You know how it is, Spike,” Xander said. “Some things you just have to see to believe.” He looked Spike up and down with hostile amusement. “Guess you’re over Buffy, then?”

Spike glanced to the knot of girls hovering in the doorway. “What do you want?” he said. “Begging? Fine, I’ll beg. I hated Angel ten times as much as I hated Buffy, so you can imagine how much I love him now. Whatever it takes to save him, I will do.”

“I don’t need anything from you, Spike.”

“Then help him, damn you,” Spike spat, “or have the decency to stake us both.”

Xander smiled, but it didn’t touch his eye. He half-turned to the door, gestured for the girls to come inside. They seemed to know what to do already. One came to the bed, offered her wrist to Angel, who took it weakly, shifted into his vampire face, and bit down. The girl winced, but held firm while the rest of the room watched, silent.

\- - - - -

“In a way, Spike, I’m actually happy for you,” Xander said as the last girl took her arm from Angel’s lips. “As long as the two of you are focused on each other, I don’t have to worry about you infecting anyone else with your twisted version of love.”

“You mean like Buffy and her demonic sugar daddy?” Spike hissed.

“Spike,” Angel warned, but Xander grinned again. 

“Dead demonic sugar daddy,” Xander corrected. “Oh yeah, we heard about the two of you in Italy. Nearly screwed up a very sensitive operation, but I’m happy to say Buffy was able to overcome your pathetic attempts to ‘protect’ her and take care of the Immortal herself. Jeez, she’s only been the Slayer how long?”

“Get out,” Spike said.

“Gladly,” Xander countered, gesturing for the girls to precede him.

“Thank you,” Angel said, and Xander waved one hand dismissively and closed the door behind him.

Spike was in the bed in an instant, moving his hands over Angel’s skin, reassuring himself. Angel caught his wrists, pulled him closer. “I’m fine, Spike,” he said, and pulled the younger vampire in for a kiss. “Better than fine. I mean, you do remember what Slayers’ blood feels like, don’t you?”

Realization dawned on Spike, his gaze slid down to Angel’s lap and he slowly grinned. “Oh, yeah,” he said, and tipped his head back. “Fuck me,” he breathed. “Just hold me down and fuck me as hard as you can.”

Angel pulled back, but Spike quickly took his hands. “Don’t let go,” he begged. “I need to feel you, really feel you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Angel said.

Spike took a ragged breath. “I need you to.”

Angel didn’t move for a long moment, only stared at Spike’s eyes, wide and dark, and listened to him panting softly. “Okay,” Angel said.

He grabbed Spike’s wrists again, climbed out of bed dragging Spike behind him. Spike gave the tiniest amount of resistance, merely for show, and let Angel throw him face-down on the dresser.

Angel grabbed the waistband at the back of Spike’s pants. “Careful,” Spike said quickly. “They aren’t mine.”

“You’d better not struggle, then,” Angel growled, and Spike gave a dirty laugh before remembering the part he was to play, and growling back. But he stayed still as Angel stripped him. Angel put one forearm across Spike’s shoulders, gripped Spike’s wrist with his other hand, kicked his legs apart. Then he thrust into Spike’s body.

Spike cried out, panted, then gasped, “harder. Please, Angel.” With a grunt, Angel obliged.

\- - - - -

“I guess you’re feeling better,” Gwen said dryly as Angel came into the living room, tying the sash of his bathrobe. 

“Er, yes. Much. Sorry about that.”

Gwen shrugged. “Seriously, though. I’m glad you’re cured,” she said.

“So am I,” Spike said, entering from the bedroom re-dressed in Gwen’s clothes. He came to Angel and leaned up for a kiss, which Angel gave.

“I couldn’t save your clothes, by the way,” Gwen said, then at Angel’s look of shock, added, “the stuff from your pockets is on the mantelpiece.”

Angel stepped over and retrieved his wallet and two zip-loc bags, one with a handful of instant photos, the other with Spike’s shorn white hair. 

“The shops on the ground floor will send up a sales consultant with samples,” Gwen said. “You can put whatever you want on my account.”

Angel glanced back at her. “Thank you,” he said.

Spike stepped closer to Gwen, his back to Angel. “Actually,” he said, “I need to speak with you in the kitchen for a minute.”

\- - - - -

They exited the kitchen, headed for the elevator. “We’ll be back in an hour,” Gwen said.

“Where are you going?”

“Just something we need to do, love,” Spike said gently. “We won’t be long.”

“Dial for the concierge,” Gwen said. “Tell her what you need and she’ll send them right up.” And they stepped into the elevator, and were gone.

Angel started to go after them, realized he was wearing only his bathrobe, and stopped. He crossed to the phone instead, called to the front. “How may I help you?” a voice answered.

“I need to get some clothes,” Angel said. “Men’s.”

“Certainly. I’ll transfer you to an associate in men’s fashions. Please hold.”

\- - - - -

In fact, two salesmen came to Gwen’s suite, along with a wheeled rack hung with clothing samples. The older sized up Angel without even using a measuring tape, asked a few questions about Spike and looked at the polaroids, and assured Angel he would find the perfect fit. Angel, having dealt with the wizard-like skills of French tailors many times in his day, had no doubt of it.

The younger assistant spread the wares across Gwen’s furniture, and the two men, recognizing a discerning eye, simply let Angel examine them and make his choices. He did, and requested a few more items not represented.

After they left, with promises to have the outfits delivered the next day, Angel glanced at the clock. An hour and a half had passed since Spike and Gwen had left. Angel pushed down his nervousness, reasoning that Spike had probably gone out for another gift. For all his bluster, Spike really could be sentimental.

Angel picked up the remote, and turned on the TV.

“– some over three hundred years old,” the blonde news-reader said in French. “Most of the buildings were offices, and vacant for the weekend, but the blaze started here, on the Avenue of the Goat, at an exclusive private club. Authorities have not speculated on a cause of the fire, but a source at the scene tells us arson has not been ruled out.”

Angel moved closer to the screen. It had been over a century since he had seen it last, and though its façade was now engulfed in flame that shot into the sky, it was unmistakably Palais d’Enfer.

“Oh, Spike,” Angel breathed. “What have you done?”

\- - - - -

Ten minutes later the elevator door slid open. Spike, standing next to Gwen within, looked first at Angel, then past him to the TV, filled with images of destruction.

“I had to do it,” Spike said. “They tried to kill you.”

“They’ll come after us, Spike,” Angel said. “And they’ll be thorough this time.”

“No, they won’t,” Gwen said, heading for the wet bar. “They were all in the basement, a-counting out the money. I set off the theft alarm first, made sure they locked themselves in good and tight. Then I fused the electronic door locks into solid lumps, so they couldn’t get out without an arc welder and four solid hours of work.”

“After that it was simple,” Spike said, pulling out a cigarette. “A few splashes of kerosene, the trusty Zippo…” He struck it now, took a long drag. “Went up like a box of Chinese fireworks.”

Gwen carried a tumbler of whiskey to Angel, put it in his hand. “Needless to say,” she said, “the smoke detectors mysteriously failed to function.”

Angel stared in disbelief. “Then the T’Votth…”

“All gone, love,” Spike said. “Between the two of us, this plane won’t feel the step of another of their stinking breed again.”

Gwen patted Angel’s hand that held the glass. “You better drink up,” she said. “You need to steady your nerves.”

Angel sank onto the couch, drained the whiskey. He looked up at Spike, who had come no further into the room, only shifted back and forth, from the balls of his feet to the heels.

“Do you forgive me?” Spike asked quietly, and Angel seemed to shake himself out of a daze.

“Nothing to forgive,” he said. “I’d have done the same.”

Spike took an eager step forward, hesitated until Angel spread his arms, and threw himself gratefully into Angel’s lap. “I love you so much,” he gasped. “When I thought of what they wanted to do to you… I felt I would go mad.”

Angel leaned over Spike, held him and stroked his arms until he stilled. “We’re safe now,” Angel said, “and we’ll not be so careless the next time.” He kissed Spike’s temple. “And I love you, too. Never doubt that.”

And Gwen retreated to her private rooms, closing the doors behind her.

\- - - - -

The next day, all three slept in, rising at their leisure through mid-day, and lingering over tea and pastries and wine glasses of chilled blood. Angel noted that Gwen seemed much more at ease, that perhaps she was coming to accept the lot that fate had cast for her.

He suggested she come with them on the next leg of their quest, Spike enthusiastically concurring, and she agreed, much to the vampires’ delight.

Later, in the afternoon, the tailors returned. True to their word the trousers, shirts, and jackets fit perfectly, and they were a brushed, expensive black.

“Now these,” Spike said, “are much more suitable.”

“I agree,” Angel said, smoothing away an invisible speck of dust from his lapel. He turned to the older tailor. “Did you bring the other items?”

“Yes, monsieur,” the older tailor said, snapping his fingers at his subordinate, who retrieved a gift box. At Angel’s direction, he offered it to Spike, who eyed it, and Angel, with amused suspicion, before tossing the top aside and tearing back the tissue paper.

Inside was a red, white, and blue t-shirt that said “Paris” in gold with a picture of the Eiffel Tower. “Angel,” Spike laughed. “It’s perfect.”

“And one more thing,” Angel said, taking a smaller box from the assistant and passing it to Spike, who opened it. Inside was a leather-bound copybook and a smooth gunmetal fountain pen.

Spike fell hard onto Gwen’s sofa, one hand to his head. 

“Are you really that surprised,” Angel asked with a grin. “It is what you asked for, and, well, the other isn’t all that original…”

“No,” Spike said. “I… I… ow. Ow!” And he pitched forward with a cry.

\- - - - -

Spike came out of it cradled in Angel’s arms. Distantly, he heard Gwen dismissing the tailors, and closer Angel repeating his name.

“What is it?” Gwen said, looking at him over Angel’s shoulder. 

Angel shook his head, uncertain, and Spike heard himself croak out brokenly, “Karsaac demons… Salzburg.”

Angel’s expression turned murderously black. “Vision,” he hissed. “The Powers must have foreseen the attack, and transferred the visions when we kissed on the tower. Damn it!” He turned his attention back to Spike. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “This should never have come to you.”

Spike pushed himself up, clamping his jaws down on the nausea that rose up in him. “Forget about it,” he said. “It’s nothing.”

“No, Spike,” Angel said, getting up himself. “What was it? What did you see?”

“Nothing,” Spike said. “Meaningless images.”

The phone rang, and Gwen answered. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I understand. St. Petersburg…”

And Spike’s knees buckled as another vision hit him. Angel just managed to catch him before he crashed to the floor.

\- - - - -

This time, Spike opened his mouth and gave a wordless cry so he wouldn’t impart any details of the vision, then gritted his teeth until tears came to his eyes. Again he was in Angel’s lap, the older vampire gently petting his arms, his hair.

“Rest easy,” Angel said. He looked up at Gwen. “That was Captain Crewe, I take it.”

“Yes,” Gwen said faintly. “But we have about two weeks.”

“Perfect,” Angel said. “I’ll need to speak with your concierge, and make arrangements.” He raised one hand and beckoned to her. “Come, sit here with us,” he said, his voice gentle, and she sank to her knees beside them.

Spike tried to push himself up. “Angel, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Lie still,” Angel said, holding him down easily. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a narrow jewelry box. “I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten you,” he said, handing it to Gwen. 

She opened it and drew out a delicate bracelet of silver set with peridot and bits of diamond. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

“I didn’t know if it would be a farewell gift,” Angel said. “Instead… let it be a token of our thanks and our partnership in this crazy mission.”

Gwen slipped the bracelet onto her wrist with a smile. “Agreed,” she said.

“There’s one more thing,” Angel said, and Gwen looked up expectantly.

“What we must do is going to be very dangerous,” Angel went on. “I’m afraid one of us might die.”

Spike tried to rise again. “Angel, you’re getting maudlin, now…”

“And if it comes to a choice between me and Spike,” Angel cut him off, “I want you to promise you’ll save Spike, not me.”

“No!” Spike said.

“Yes,” Angel shot back, in a tone that said the matter was clearly settled. 

With only the merest hesitation, Gwen said, “agreed.”

“Now just one…”

“That’s it, then,” Angel said. “Glad to be working with you.”

“That is not ‘it,’” Spike insisted. “I… I… “ And he howled out with rage as a vision hit him again.

He must have passed out, he realized as he came to stretched out on the couch. Angel was sitting at his feet, stroking his calf reassuringly and talking on the phone. Spike tried to listen in, but his head was too fuzzy to concentrate on the French. 

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Angel said, thumbing off Gwen’s phone.

“But the visions,” Spike said weakly. 

“Let me take care of things,” Angel said, and Spike could hear a hint of Angelus in his voice. For some reason, that made him feel safer. He decided not to examine the emotion too closely.


	16. After: The Opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel, Spike, and Gwen head to Russia.

Spike was mercifully vision-free the rest of the night and all the next day, but as they packed and prepared, Spike began to feel sick with dread, knowing the powers would screw with him once the time to leave arrived. Angel had ordered Spike more clothes, soft and loose-fitting, so he wouldn’t be constricted if a vision hit. Spike tried to ignore the fact that they made him feel like an invalid. Or a child.

After dark they went out to catch a taxi. Angel let the first one pass, then the second. He got a good look at the third before opening the door. They rode to the train station, boarded a sleek, modern train called “Le Royale Rouge” and were escorted by their porter to their private car.

It was a beautifully appointed suite with a large sitting/dining room and two bedrooms, one to each side. The furniture was in the Russian style, dark and luxurious. Angel nodded towards the larger bedroom.

“My brother is not well,” he told the porter in French. “I do not wish to have him disturbed, and will summon the chambermaid when it is convenient for him to be roused. Can you see that that is done?

“Yes, sir,” the porter said. “Can I bring you anything before we depart?”

Angel glanced at Gwen. “A light lunch for my sister,” he said, “and a pot of tea for my brother and myself.”

“Very good, sir,” the porter agreed, and then he left them alone.

“Christ,” Spike said. “It’s a five-star hotel on rails. This must have set you back a piece.”

“That’s nothing for you to worry about,” Angel told him, securing the window blinds for when they pulled out.

“You’ve got me worried,” Spike teased. “One might think you were trying to buy my affections.”

Angel shot Spike a strange look, but Spike just turned to Gwen with a leer. “You might want to make yourself scarce for a few hours, pet,” he said. “Might be getting a bit noisy soon.”

Angel made a weird gurgling noise, then crossed the room and began to pull Spike by the arm towards the bedroom. “That worked faster than I thought it would,” Spike laughed.

“Just give us a few minutes,” Angel said, and Spike’s mock-outrage was cut off by the slamming door.

“Take it easy, Angel,” Spike said. “Gwen knows all about us, and…”

“It isn’t that,” Angel said. “I’m just… I’m concerned about the effect the visions are going to have on you.”

Spike pushed away, turned his back to Angel. “They won’t have any effect,” he said.

Angel reached for Spike’s shoulder, but didn’t quite touch. “You don’t understand,” Angel said. “I’ve seen what they do to people. Doyle… my friend, Doyle, the first one with the visions. He was a respected and accomplished man, a schoolteacher, with a wife and home. The visions completely devastated him. He left his profession, took to gambling. He drank far too much. Then he fell in with me, and he didn’t live very long after that.”

Spike’s anger melted, and he turned back to his lover. “I remember him,” he said. “He was very brave and clever, as I recall.”

“Yes,” Angel said. “You’d have liked him.” He took another breath and continued. “Cordy hid the effect a little better, but the pain was unbearable for her. We found out later she was badly addicted to painkillers. It was so bad, she gave away her humanity to relieve it.” This time, Angel did take Spike’s arm, pulled him closer and rested their foreheads together.

“Someday, I will tell you everything that happened to her,” Angel said. “But if I’d known what she would have to endure, I’d have sent her away the first time I saw her in L.A. Better for her to be an actress or a bartender waiting for an acting break than what she suffered because of me.”

“Not because of you,” Spike said, but Angel shook his head, denying the words.

“When the visions came to me,” Angel said, “I thought that was as things should be. I receive them, I deal with them, no one else was involved. Even with our new plan of ignoring the visions, I thought it was best that no one else needed to bear them.”

“It wasn’t,” Spike said. “They were killing you, Angel. That airplane flight…”

“Spike, listen to me. I promised I would never hurt you again, but since we started together… and don’t mistake me, these months with you have been wonderful, but all I’ve done since Los Angeles is hurt you.”

“No,” Spike said firmly. “No, you haven’t.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone I care about,” Angel said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Angel,” Spike’s voice was reasonable and calm. “Come over here with me.” He guided Angel towards the bed, though the older vampire resisted. “I need to tell you some things of my own.”

They sat side-by-side, and Spike leaned down towards Angel and brushed through his own hair with his fingers. After a few moments, he pulled the hair aside, exposing part of the crown of his head. “Look here, Angel.”

Angel looked closely, then ran one finger over the thin, white scar, about two inches long, on Spike’s scalp. “Is it..?”

“Yes,” Spike sat up. “That’s where they took out the chip.”

Angel’s face darkened. “I’d heard stories,” he said, his voice low and angry. “What did they do to you?”

Spike touched Angel’s lips. “Shh. It’s over now. But listen to me. I’m going to tell you about that time. You need to understand.”

\- - - - -

“I had come back to Sunnydale. I had lost the ring of Amarra to you, lost my minions, lost everything. I had one plan: kill the Slayer or die trying.

“But before I could do anything, a bunch of soldiers jumped me, stunned me with electric shocks, dragged me off and hit me with something that knocked me out completely. 

“When I came to, I was trapped, like a lab rat, in a big white box with a glass front. I must have been out a long time, because I was starving. And the light was blinding after a century in darkness. I was frantic to escape.

“Another vamp in the cage next to me told me they doped the blood. So when a bag popped through, I pretended to be unconscious and miraculously managed to escape.

“But that’s when I found out what they’d done to me. I couldn’t bite, couldn’t feed. I couldn’t even defend myself. If I so much as thought about doing violence, my head began to fill with pain. I fought it, and fought it, but I couldn’t make it stop.

“I starved. For days I starved, and finally I went and begged the Slayer to help me.

“They chained me up, kept me chained day and night. They fed me, but not enough, and only after they’d humiliated me. And always there was fear, that the soldiers would find me and take me back to that sterile, white hell.

“Slowly, by degrees, I got more and more freedom. But freedom only meant I could buy blood with money I didn’t have. I could sleep in the dirt in a stinking crypt, alone. I have to avoid humans. Dogs. I was a target for other demons.

“I went crazy, a little at a time. I was so desperate for companionship and in fear for my life, I became a pet for Buffy and her little friends. A lot happened; you’ve heard stories about that, too, but really, it was all madness. 

“My point is, I endured all of it, Angel. I survived, so I know all about pain so bad you want to pull your own head off. I know about fear that makes you jump at every dry leaf that blows against your door. And I know madness, too, the kind of madness that makes you cry like a child in the dark.

“But worse than any of this, worse than all of it put together, was the loneliness. I had no one, do you understand? No one to care if I lived or died. 

“Now I have these visions, and, yes, they’re painful. I don’t have to tell you that. But I can endure them, I will endure them, if you are here with me.

“I would face ten Initiatives, a hundred Slayers, every demon in every hell, if I had you to love me.”

\- - - - -

When Spike finished his tale, he found himself again in Angel’s arms, his face wet with tears he hadn’t realized he’d started to cry. Angel’s eyes were shining, too, and he began to kiss Spike’s hair and face.

“You have me,” he was repeating over and over. “You have me.”

\- - - - -

By the time they exited into the suite’s sitting room, their tea was cold, and Gwen had left only crumbs and a note saying she would return in a few hours. The vampires decided to take advantage of her absence with a quick shower, which became somewhat lengthy, before they changed into some of their new clothes.

Angel seemed to have decided to play the part of an important American businessman, ignoring Spike’s comments about looking like the chief mourner, while Spike slid into casual-but-elegant slacks and his “Paris” t-shirt. 

Angel thought he was probably expected to comment on the latter, but in truth he could do no more than grin.

When Gwen returned, she found Angel reading the latest Michelin guide for St. Petersburg in the book-of-all-books, and Spike thoughtfully sucking the end of his new fountain pen while his still-blank copybook lay open in his lap.

“Ah, the excitement of international travel!” she declared. “How will I endure this frantic pace?”

“Nice,” Angel said.

“Just kidding,” Gwen said, bouncing down onto a divan. “So, have you two kids made up?”

Angel and Spike exchanged looks so charged that even the electric-girl felt the sparks. “Good,” she said, a little breathless. “Glad to hear it.”

\- - - - -

After dark the three walked to the club car, which was decorated like a jazz-age music hall, all black and silver. Even among the jet-setting clientele they created a buzz of interest which Angel fed upon, leading him to enlarge his gestures to dramatic proportions.

Oh, yeah, Spike thought, Angelus was, if not in the house, at least hanging around the front sidewalk.

Gwen, surprisingly, was very encouraging of the vampires’ relationship, smiling fondly when they touched hands or gazed at one another, and Spike found himself smiling back in grateful friendship.

Angel drank a bit more than he was used to, and Spike and Gwen had to half-support him as they walked back through the swaying train cars. Once returned to their bedroom, Spike took shameless advantage of Angel’s giddy and somewhat defenseless state, until both collapsed into sated slumber.

\- - - - -

Spike scribbled a line in his copybook, regarded it a moment, then scratched it out and wrote another. After the fourth repetition of this cycle, he looked up to find he had Angel and Gwen’s full attention.

“Listen,” he said to Angel. “You’re older than me, and are a little more studied in vampire traditions than I am…”

”Only in that I heard them and ignored them, while I never bothered telling you at all,” Angel said.

“Yeah, well, thanks for that,” Spike said sincerely, “but the point is, I need to know if they ever came up with a word to describe our relationship…”

Angel raised one eyebrow, smirking, and Spike stammered, “what I mean is, I say that you’re my Sire…”

“When you’re particularly ticked off at me,” Angel muttered.

“Er, yeah,” Spike agreed with a strain of annoyance. “But what am I to you? What’s the opposite?”

Angel pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t know that there’s an official word,” he said. “At least, not that I remember hearing. I think Giles called you my offspring once.”

“Spawn would work,” Gwen suggested.

“Scion? Progeny? Issue? Brood?” Angel read from the book-of-all-books, now become Roget’s Unabridged Thesaurus.

“I’m writing poetry,” Spike said testily. “Not naming a heavy-metal band.”

“Hey, here’s a list of names for young animals,” Angel said, turning a page. “How about cub? Or whelp?”

Spike stood and headed for the bedroom. “I should have known better than to ask you two philistines,” he shot over his shoulder.

“What about fledgling?” Angel called after him.

“Shut up!” Spike shouted, and slammed the door.

\- - - - -

But later, after they’d made love, Spike shyly brought the copybook to Angel, turned past the pages of crossed-out lines to where the finished poem was written out in his ornate, Victorian hand. 

“I decided to go with ‘heir,’” he confessed.

\- - - - -

Spike suffered another round of visions as they approached their destination, would have suffered them completely alone had Angel not come into the bedroom to find Spike had half-choked himself on a pillowcase to keep from crying out.

Angel restrained Spike using only his own body, enduring kicks and punches as Spike thrashed, and at last laying on top of him and embracing the rigid limbs. He maintained that position long after Spike seemed to lose consciousness and go limp beneath him, moving only when Spike rasped, “Get off me, you fat sod.”

Angel rolled, lifting Spike to rest on him and gently stroking his back and shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. Did I hurt you?”

“No.” He pulled Spike closer and kissed him. “You should have called for me.”

“Don’t you understand?” Spike said. “That’s what they *want.* They’re sending these visions as a distraction. We can’t let them distract us, or they’ve won.”

“I don’t want you hurt.”

“Believe me, I don’t want me hurt, either. But I’m not letting you spend all your time fussing over me.” Spike half-closed his eyes and mentally switched his gears to the seduction setting. 

“Now kiss me again,” he said.

\- - - - -

The train arrived in St. Petersburg at dusk, and Angel, Spike, and Gwen stepped into the station and began to look for their contact, whose handle was Lukolana. They hadn’t gone far before spotting a young man with broad, Slavic features and longish brown hair tousled artfully around his head. He was wearing long, baggy shorts, macramé sandals, and a faded “Ron Jon” t-shirt. He held a hand-lettered sign that said “Quadrivium Society – Welcome.”

Gwen waved to him and he waved back. “Aloha, cousins,” he called out in a thick Russian accent.

“You’re Lukolana, I take it,” Gwen said, and the young man grinned proudly.

“That’s my Hawaiian name,” he said. “My given name is Ruslan Vlascenko.”

Angel frowned. “Your ‘Hawaiian’ name?”

“Yes,” Ruslan said. “I am going to move there and become a great surfer.”

“Neat,” Spike said. “When will this happen?”

“When I can save enough money,” Ruslan admitted. “But I am working very hard,” he added, a bit defensively.

“How long until our window for closing the second gateway?” Gwen asked as they began walking, presumably toward Ruslan’s apartment.

“Seven days,” Ruslan said. “But the place we need to conduct the ritual is underground, and the passage is blocked with stones. It will take much work to clear the way.”

“Are there other members of the Society who can help us?” Angel asked.

“A few, but the way to open the passage is treacherous,” Ruslan said. “It is too narrow for heavy equipment, and explosives could damage the supports. The stones must be broken and carried out by hand. We have been digging for months, but there remain many stones that are too heavy to shift, and are badly positioned to hammer apart.”

“Which is where we come in,” Angel said.

“Da. Exactly,” Ruslan said. “We will meet with them at the site tomorrow night.” They had come to a concrete apartment block, and Ruslan pulled out his keyring. “My flat is on floor nineteen,” he said, leading them through the light-blue linoleum lobby to a plain gray elevator. He reached for the call button, but his hand stopped halfway and he turned away from the group.

“What is it?” Angel said, but Ruslan began speaking in Russian as though to someone unseen.

“What’s he saying?” Spike asked quietly.

Angel frowned. “He’s telling someone her daughter is not here. Saying she needs to go through a golden curtain to see her again.”

Ruslan turned back to them. “My apologies,” he said. “There was a ghost that needed my help.”

“A ghost?” This was Spike.

“Yes,” Ruslan said, hitting the elevator call button. “It is my gift. I can see and speak to the spirits of the dead.”

“Impressive,” Angel said.

“I suppose,” Ruslan agreed. “Mostly it is like being in a tea house. Talk, talk, talk with nothing important to say.”

The elevator door opened and they stepped in, rode up, stepped out. The hallway was dim and smelled of boiled cabbage and piss. From behind the doors came the sounds of blaring TVs, a baby crying, and some kind of mechanical appliance in bad need of repair. Ruslan led them to the very end of the hall, apartment #1956.

Stepping in was like stepping into another time and place. The walls were painted a warm sandy color and the floor was covered with canvas mats etched with simple patterns in green and blue. The furniture was wicker and bamboo with flowered cushions, and a yellow and red surfboard hung on one wall. Tropical plants crowded around the windows, and beaded curtains separated the inner rooms, bedroom and kitchen. Pages from magazines were pinned on the walls, scenes of palm trees and blue ocean, and a shelf unit was crammed with surfing magazines, books, and videotapes.

“The vampires can have the bedroom,” Ruslan said. “It doesn’t get sunlight there. Gwen, you can sleep on the couch and I will take the floor.”

“I’m not making you sleep on the floor,” Gwen protested.

“I do it all the time,” Ruslan said. 

“No, she’s right,” Spike said. “Listen. Angel and I can sleep during the day. You take the bedroom now, and we’ll wake you before the sun comes up.”

Ruslan nodded. “Yes, a good idea,” he said.

“Let’s have your key, then,” Spike said. “We’ll go acquaint ourselves with your beautiful city. Let’s go, Angel.”

Angel looked about to argue, but Spike shot him a pointed look before catching the Russian boy’s keys, and both exited the flat.

“What about the visions?” Angel said as they descended in the elevator.

“What about them?” Spike replied.

“What if a vision hits you while we’re out at a bar or something?”

They exited the elevator and crossed the lobby, both casting an uncomfortable glance towards the corner where Ruslan had spoken to the ghost.

“What of it?” Spike said. “You’ll be with me, so what’s the big trauma?”

“I just don’t want you to be hurt,” Angel said.

“Well I’ve got a news-flash for you,” Spike said as they stepped out onto the sidewalk and started towards the town center. “I’m going to get hurt at some point, whether it be the Powers, or demons, or my own stupid luck, and there’s nothing you or anyone can do about it.” He stepped ahead of Angel, walked backwards so he could face him and keep moving. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. I’m not going to let you bundle me up like some China teacup that’s gonna break into a million pieces, because that’s exactly what the fucking Powers want us to do, and I’m not letting anyone control my–”

And with a cry he pitched sideways, crumpling against the wall of the building. Angel was beside him in an instant. “I’ll take you back up,” he said.

“The hell you will,” Spike gasped, and then another vision washed over him like a wave.

\- - - - -

When awareness came back to him, Spike knew he was resting in Angel’s arms, so he kept his eyes closed and just enjoyed that for a moment. When he opened his eyes, he saw they were in an alleyway between two buildings alongside a trash bin.

“Are you all right?” Angel asked anxiously.

“I’m fine,” Spike said hoarsely. “Now lets find a nightclub with lots of dark corners where I can have my way with you.”

“I have a better idea,” Angel said.

\- - - - -

Twenty minutes later, they were in a tiny private salon at a tea house called Irina’s. The room was but a few feet larger than the table within it, and lit only with oil lanterns. The waitress, at Angel’s request, had brought a fur blanket to lay across Spike’s lap, then a pot of hot tea and cakes with jam. Angel stirred a spoonful of berry jam into his tea, in the Russian style, and Spike followed suit. After a few mouthfuls, Spike’s hands stopped shaking.

“Better?” Angel asked, and Spike nodded gratefully. “Good,” Angel said, and he took a big bite of cake.

“What did you see?” he asked after a moment, and Spike looked very weary.

“I’m not going to tell you,” he said. “I’d rather die than give them the satisfaction.”

Angel gave him a hard look, which Spike returned with stubbornness. “I know how hard it is,” Angel said.

“And you know how hard I can fight,” Spike returned.

Angel regarded him a moment longer, then nodded. “Alright,” he said, and deliberately changed the subject. “What do you think of our host?”

“I think somewhere on Waikiki Beach there’s a kid wearing a fur hat and calling himself Nikolai,” Spike said around another sip of tea. “But the talking to ghosts is right creepy, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah,” Angel said. “I wonder if he’s one of them who’s channeling Captain Crewe.”

And the two of them contemplated that in silence.


	17. After: Autumnal Equinox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More adventures in Russia.

Spike and Angel lay on Ruslan’s bed, which, in deference to the chill even this early in the season, had a heavy feather comforter. Although, in deference to the bed’s owner, it was slip-covered in a pattern of palm trees and hibiscus flowers. Another surfboard was mounted on the wall above them, and a vintage hula-girl lamp smiled invitingly from the nightstand.

The room was small, only a little larger than the bed, and a steam radiator in the corner hissed and rattled, warming the room until it resembled the tropics in more than just its trappings. The two vampires felt dozy and snuggled against one another like sleepy dogs, half-listening to Gwen typing on her laptop and Ruslan fixing his breakfast. 

At 9 am, there was a knock at the front door, and Ruslan admitted what sounded like an older woman. He introduced her to Gwen, an “American Friend,” offered her a glass of tea, then got down to the business of communicating with her dead husband.

Over the better part of an hour, Ruslan related the dead man’s advice on the children, his widow’s job, and whether they should move to a new apartment, then the woman paid Ruslan, thanked him, and left.

Throughout the day he saw six “clients,” sometimes chatting with a dead relation, other times calling on the spirit world at large. In one case a woman brought her daughter, who she suspected was being haunted by her great aunt (Ruslan assured her the girl was merely precocious.)

Just before sunset, Spike and Angel rose. One of Ruslan’s clients, a butcher, had brought him four cartons of blood at his request, and the vampires downed it cold. At dusk, they made their way with Ruslan to St. Nicholas Cemetery, the largest in St. Petersburg. 

The Quadrivium work crew was already waiting, fully geared with sledgehammers, pickaxes, and an arrangement of pulleys and chains. The self-appointed foreman, a tree-trunk-shaped man called Kolya, led them into an open mausoleum and down into a tunnel lit with a string of bare light bulbs.

It soon became apparent that the crew expected the vampires to simply toss the mattress-sized slabs of rock onto their backs and carry them out of the tunnel, and there was a bit of discussion and bickering before everyone grabbed implements of destruction and got to work. The work was tiring, and though an improvement over the humans alone, slow-going, so there was additional frustration when Spike suffered another round of visions. This then led to a heated argument between Angel and Grisha, another crew-man, which ended when the former hoisted the latter up against the tunnel wall and convincingly threatened to feed him his own liver. Spike spent the rest of the night looking very smug.

By pre-dawn, everyone admitted that significant progress had been made, and between Kolya’s estimates as a mechanical engineer and Ruslan’s messages from the spirit world, they expected two more nights of work.

Ruslan and the two vampires quickly showered in the apartment block’s shared bathroom, anxious to clear out before the morning rush, then crawled into bed and sofa where they slept like stones.

\- - - - -

Sure enough, the tunnel was cleared by the third night, revealing a smooth-walled chamber. A group of stones arranged in a sort of doorway stood in the center of the room, and a long, low table or altar nearby. The opening of this room had the greatest effect on Ruslan, who, visibly pale and shaking, walked to the doorway and stood in it, his arms braced on either side.

A low vibration seemed to begin in the walls and the floor, a deep resonant hum just below the range of hearing. After a moment, Ruslan stepped away from the doorway and the vibration ceased. “This is the place,” he said. “We will come again in three days time.” He pointed to each man on the crew, one at a time. “Aleksei, bring good vodka. I know you have a stash of the best. Grisha, a black cloth for the altar. In your mother’s bedroom. She had some for a new dress before she died. Under the sewing machine.”

Grisha swore an oath under his breath, but nodded.

“Kolya,” Ruslan continue. “We need candles and plates to burn them on. Vadik, bring as many sweets from your bakery as you can manage. That and the vodka will feed the spirits.”

All things arranged, the group filed out. “Three days,” Ruslan reminded them, and they dispersed in all directions.

“How will we get the energy to close the second gateway,” Angel asked as they returned to the apartment.

“I have been in contact with many of the St. Nicholas ghosts,” Ruslan said. “With my help, they will exit this plane permanently, all at once. The energy released should be more than enough.”

“There are that many ghosts bound here?” Spike was surprised.

“You must understand,” Ruslan said. “The Soviet system created ghosts. Funerals were a waste of money, mourning was an indulgence. So many spirits in pain, and no way of knowing they were dead. When I first learned I could see them and talk to them, they seemed at first to be no different than the gray, silent people who were alive. It was only later I knew they did not belong here any more.

“Most of the time, you have only to tell a ghost it is dead, and it is happy and eager to move on. Not always; sometimes there is family, or business to be done, but mostly.

“When we began to work on this plan, maybe a year ago, all of us who touch the ghost plane began to recruit. Those spirits who had the awareness to understand what they were, and the importance of what we were trying to do were asked to remain, until the time when their passing beyond would do the most good.

“When we learned the place was to be here, they began to gather, to come and be ready when it came time to close the gateway.”

Angel and Spike looked around the deserted streets, as though they might see the ghosts gathered on street corners. 

“How many are there?” Spike asked.

“Right now,” Ruslan said, “they fill St. Nicholas standing shoulder to shoulder, and six deep outside the wall.”

\- - - - -

Ruslan began to see his clients again the next day, dozing between sessions and fortifying himself with strong, black tea. After dark, Angel and Spike took Gwen with them back to Irina’s Tea House while Ruslan slept soundly in his bed. She brought her laptop and they read and discussed the latest news on the Quadrivium Society Forums. 

Most of the members already considered the “St. Petersburg Event” (or SPE) a forgone success and were already speculating on where the next ritual gateway might be. It was generally agreed it would be further east – “moonward” as the more pretentious termed it – and probably more quickly, though no one seemed to have a good reason why they thought so.

“We’ve had offers to move us quickly,” Gwen said. “I’ll have to talk to Ruslan about who we can trust, but there are some definite possibilities.”

The next night, they invited her out again, but she demurred. “There are a few places I want to check out,” she said.

Angel frowned sternly at her. “Are you going to…” he began, but Gwen cut him off sweetly and said,

“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”

Angel and Spike decided to tour on foot, perhaps find the nightclub with the dark corners, but they somehow found themselves drawn back to St. Nicholas. 

Spike peered into the darkness, imagining the scene Ruslan described, and shuddered. “Like a bloody ghost gulag,” he said, and Angel nodded grimly.

“The boy has great power,” Angel said. “I keep thinking about what that power would have become in the hands of Lindsey, or Lilah, or someone else out for gain.”

Spike shuddered again, although it may have been the autumnal chill this time, and moved under Angel’s arm. “Lucky for us the universe made him into a misplaced beach boy,” he said.

“Maybe someone out there knows what they’re doing after all,” Angel said, then shook himself away from his contemplation of the graveyard. “A quarter mile up, I hear there’s a great disco called ‘Hypnotiq,’” Angel said. “Care to join me?”

“Only if you stop using ancient words like ‘disco,’” Spike said, rolling his eyes, then added, “old geezer.”

Angel mock-punched Spike’s arm. “This ‘old geezer’ might remind you you’re not too big to put across my knee,” he said.

“I’m holding you to that one, mate,” Spike laughed, moving a few steps to the side on the balls of his feet. “Last one there’s a fossil,” he said, then was off like a shot. Angel gave a grunt of surprise, then ran after.

They tore through the street, blurs of black so fast the city took no notice of their passing.

\- - - - -

Hypnotiq’s corners were, indeed, very dark and away from curious eyes. Spike and Angel came together in a messy, demanding clash, all grasping, biting, pushing. But for them both, it was the comfort they needed.

\- - - - -

The assembly in the graveyard the next night included Ruslan, the vampires, their work-crew, Gwen, and a few more members of the Quadrivium Society who were too old or lacked the upper body strength to be effective at clearing the tunnel. All carried items to assist with the ritual: dressing for the altar, food and drink for the ghosts, candles, incense, and the like.

Ruslan directed the activity within the chamber, making the others stand against the wall as he made his preparations. Then the altar was made ready, candles burning and food laid out like a fancy buffet. “I am going to begin,” Ruslan announced. “Please prepare yourselves.”

Spike wasn’t sure what Ruslan expected them to do, aside from generally bracing themselves, but when Angel pulled him back against his chest and rested his chin on Spike’s shoulder, Spike thought, yes, this was just what he meant.

Ruslan returned to the doorway as he had three nights before, spread his legs a bit for balance and braced one hand on either side. “Now,” he said quietly, as though speaking to someone just beside him.

The vortex opened in the doorway at once, like a glowing funnel stretching into the distance, through Ruslan, seeming to pull and distort his body. The temperature in the room plunged instantly, like jumping into an icy river on a summer’s day. The shock was enough to drive a breath from many of the assembled, and it was expelled in a mist as warm air met cold.

A wind tore through the room, and out of the corner of his eye, Spike could see movement, like orbs of light that vanished when he turned to look at them straight on.

“Come in,” Ruslan said, in that same calm, conversational tone. “It is time.”

The wind moved towards him, through him, *into* him like a powerful exhaust fan. Spike felt Angel squeeze him tighter, and then he felt something else.

It was the sensation of something inside his mind, like a fluttering or a tickle, moving through his memories like fingers shuffling cards, and then like his strength was being drawn out through his chest, a spool of twine being unwound. He took a shuddering breath, barely finding the voice to whisper, “Angel,” before going limp in a dead faint.

\- - - - -

Angel caught him, scooped him up in his arms as one would hold a child. His first thought, “vision,” was quickly rejected based on Spike’s lack of struggle. Of course, with his imagination now unfettered, a wild succession of possibilities, each more horrible than the next, ricocheted around Angel’s brain. Spike, due to his previous ghostliness, had been drawn into the vortex; the spirits had somehow attacked him; his soul had been pulled out.

Luckily, at that moment, the ritual came to its conclusion. The wind stopped, the vortex closed, and the doorway fell, leaving Ruslan standing with his arms outstretched, in the middle of the room. The temperature bounced back up to normal, and the humans hugged and cheered.

Angel, with Gwen close behind him, stumbled towards the tunnel, when Spike came awake with a gasp.

“What happened? Is it over?” he said, and Angel set him carefully back on his feet.

“It’s over,” Angel said.

“Did you have a vision?” Gwen asked.

“No,” Spike said, uncertain. “This was something else. A… touch, something beyond…”

“We’ll get back to the apartment,” Angel said. “Then we’ll talk to Ruslan.”

\- - - - -

That task was easier said than done. First, the Quadrivium contingent insisted they adjourn to a nearby bar, and Angel and Spike could not refuse. Vodka was served in slender tubes on trays of ice, and they had caviar and black bread. The festivities would have continued straight on if Ruslan hadn’t had a “visitor” inform him that an angry clan of demons was gathering three streets over with designs to murder the humans who’d sealed away their home dimension.

And then they were arming themselves with tools and knives and a few illegal guns, not to mention their incidental natural defenses, not the least of which was the ability to put 40,000 volts through somebody. They caught the demons by surprise, a bit of luck that kept their casualties low while the demons suffered a total loss. 

After that, it was back to the bar for a few more rounds of vodka, and that might have lasted the entire next day for all Angel knew, as he literally dragged Spike away from the table a half-hour before sunrise.

\- - - - -

Eventually, all concerned parties were rested and sober enough to discuss what had happened to Spike. 

“Did you feel as though a presence came into your mind?” Ruslan asked. “One of the ghosts?”

“It felt like…” Spike hesitated, uncertain, then pressed on. “It felt like I was being unraveled. Taken apart so I could be examined.”

“Examined for what?” This was Gwen.

Spike shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Ruslan rubbed his hand over the lower part of his face, thoughtful. “If you will allow it, I would like to see what happened to you. I can put myself into a state where I am very close to the spirit world, allow ghosts to speak through me.”

“Hell, yes, you don’t need my permission…” Spike began, but Angel stopped him.

“Is there a risk to you?” he asked Ruslan.

Ruslan’s expression clouded. “Not a risk,” he said. “Not in the way you mean. But the spirits… I do not know what they will say. They may say things you do not wish to hear.”

Spike looked at Angel, who had begun to shake his head no. “Do it,” Spike said firmly.

\- - - - -

Gwen, claiming she did not wish to hear the opinions of the spirit world where she was concerned, excused herself and left the apartment. Ruslan made very few preparations himself, only doused the electric lights in favor of candles, and moved the sofa cushions to the floor so he and the two vampires could sit in a rough circle. After that, he only took a few deep breaths before appearing to go into a sort of trance, his eyes wide and staring at nothing.

He told several unseen entities to be on their way, that he was only interested in what had happened to Spike. Then there was a moment where he appeared to be pushing something away, a sheen of sweat appearing on his face. Then he was suddenly calm, his eyes half-closed now. “Your spirit is here.”

“Are you the one who probed me?” Spike said.

“No, I am called Katya,” Ruslan said. “I am only a guide, an interpreter. But your guide is here, too. He has been following you since you left Los Angeles. He has spoken with many voices.”

“Captain Crewe,” Angel said.

“As you say,” Ruslan said.

“I knew it,” Spike said under his breath.

“Who is he?” Angel said. “We have to know. We have to know if we can trust him.”

Ruslan’s head dropped forward and his mouth went slack. He made a small, choking sound. When he looked up again his eyes had a bright keenness in them. They had also gone entirely blue. “I guess that depends on whether you trusted me at all, Angel,” he said in a perfect British accent.

Spike pushed back on his hands and feet with a panicked, “Bloody Hell!” and Angel gaped in horror.

“Wesley,” he breathed.

“Yes,” Wesley said through Ruslan’s mouth, and the effect was uncanny. “Now you know why I had to keep my identity a secret. If you knew, you would never have listened.”

“No, I would have,” Angel insisted.

“But after everything?” Wesley said, his voice half-choking.

“We haven’t time for this,” Spike said. “Why’d you sort through my brain?”

“It is the third gateway,” Wesley said. “They need… the power of Shanshu. Angel’s already signed his away. I had to see if it had gone to you.”

Spike turned on Angel accusingly. “You what?”

“And did it?” Angel asked.

“Yes,” Wesley said, and choked again. “My time is short. This is draining. You must go to Mumbai, India. You have eleven days.” He gasped and choked again, his eyes closing. When they opened again, they were brown.

“Mother of God,” Ruslan swore.

\- - - - -

Spike and Angel ended up on the roof of Ruslan’s apartment block, the only place Spike could rage in relative privacy. 

“You signed it away,” he repeated in shocked disbelief for the eighth or ninth time; Angel had lost count.

“I had no choice,” Angel said miserably.

“But it was yours, you deserved it,” Spike said, then more softly, “why didn’t you tell me?”

Angel shrugged. “I didn’t know beforehand, and afterwards, it wasn’t important anymore.”

“Well I don’t fucking want it,” Spike said, furious again. “If they want to close the third gateway they can bloody well have it.”

Now Angel’s temper flared. “What do you mean, you don’t want it? You nearly killed me for it!”

“First of all, it was a goblet of flat soda that tasted like piss,” Spike said. “*Not* fucking Shanshu. Second, I didn’t come close to killing you. I only kicked your broody, self-righteous arse, mainly just to prove I could.”

“You didn’t know that at the time,” Angel said petulantly.

“Yeah, well, a lot of things have changed since then,” Spike shot back. “I like being a vampire, now. And you can just wipe that smug look right off your face; it has nothing to do with you. I like being super-strong and not getting sick…”

And the rest of his words were silenced as Angel’s mouth closed over his.

\- - - - -

Gwen did not return until the middle of the next day, looking very smug herself. She took the announcement of Mumbai, India, completely in stride, and after 90 minutes on the laptop had arranged for a series of transports across the continent, courtesy of the QS. The first would pick them up that evening.

“I wonder if Wesley’s with us now,” Spike said quietly as they waited in a streetlamp’s orange glow.

“I suppose he is,” Angel said.

“That means he’s been with us all along,” Spike continued. “Watching us when we…”

“Wesley was always discreet,” Angel said. “I doubt he, you know… watched.”

“Kind of a turn-on if he did,” Spike said lightly, but before Angel could answer a moving van pulled up and a black-bearded man waved from the driver’s seat. “Hello, American friends,” he said. “My name is Fyodor.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Angel said. “I’m Angel, this is Spike, and Gwen. I really can’t tell you how much we appreciate your help.”

Fyodor frowned, then said, “Thank you. You’re welcome.”

Angel gave a rueful smile, then repeated himself in Russian. Fyodor grinned and invited them into the truck. Once strapped into the seat, a little cramped but not too bad, the van set off down the road. Fyodor reached over and turned on the radio.

Angel sat up a little straighter as the announcer began to describe a museum robbery that made off with several pieces from the Catherine the Great jewelry collection, valued at 38 million rubles. At the name “Hermitage” he saw Gwen glance up guiltily, then try to avert her eyes.

“Gwen?” It was all the question he needed to ask, and she gave a small nod, then rolled her eyes.

“They’re already gone,” she said. “And I didn’t take any of the really notable ones; they weren’t even sure they were all hers. Anyway, I had to give our host a gift, and nothing says thank you like a big box of money, right?”

\- - - - -

Two weeks later:

Ruslan stepped out from beneath the shadow of a line of palms and set one bare foot on the warm sand of Wiamea Bay. He had waited his whole life for this moment, and now, standing here in his baggy swim trunks, and with the red and yellow surfboard he had carried from St. Petersburg, the transcendent beauty of the clear, blue surf brought tears to his eyes. He had not wept since his mother’s death three years earlier, yet the ocean, beckoning him with a roar like a lion, nearly had him undone.

He started walking towards the water, and the spirits of Wiamea crowded around him excitedly. Surfer boys lost to the waves decades ago gave words of encouragement, and the sons of the ancient Kahunas touched him lightly, whispered advice. “Nothing like your first wave, Gremmy,” said a Brah in a red Pendleton and Huarache sandals. “Wish I was you, Dude.”

The sun glinted off the perfect curls, edged with white foam like lace on a blue satin slip, and Ruslan walked faster, running now, his gun out in front of him. The water rose to him, eager, giving, like a lover, and he leapt forward, soaring on the salt air.

He fell into the embrace of the waves. It was everything he’d longed for.


	18. After: The X Prize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle moves to India. Angel and Spike have doubts.

Spike slid back the louvered wooden shutter, watched the last streaks of red fade from the sky, and utter blackness descend. They had arrived in Mumbai a few hours before dawn to find their contact a victim of a “pre-emptive strike” by one of the city’s thousand or so demon clans who’d gotten wise to the “close-the-gateways” plan. Another contact, a small, twitchy girl who only handed them a scrawled note, had led them to a boarding house, and the landlady had given them a tiny room in the very back of the top floor. Another note awaited them there, explaining that they were to lie low, they would be sent for after sunset.

Miraculously, Gwen’s laptop received a wireless signal here, and they were able to piece together the situation, which appeared bleak. Apparently, India had long accepted the existence of demons in everyday life, far more than the west. Human and demon lived in close proximity, did business together, had daily discourse. There were even a number of demon movie stars at the various Bollywood studios. As a result, the demons knew there were humans plotting against them, and they weren’t going to take it lying down.

The QS scrambled for alternatives, and the website and forums were under strict radio silence, meaning Spike, Angel, and Gwen had nothing to do but wait, and hope their enemies didn’t get wise to the plan.

\- - - - -

Shortly after sunset the twitchy girl returned with another note, telling them they would be taken in a private car to a secret location. They left ready to fight. The “private car” turned out to be a converted school bus, circa 1945, which had been converted into a home on wheels. The glass in the windows had long since been broken out and replaced with billowy curtains or tin shutters. The exterior of the bus had been wildly painted and decorated with baubles and bits of mirror, and hung with streamers and beads.

“So, we’re traveling with the Muppets, now,” Spike said dryly, and the bus door swung open. 

“Are these our guests, Jarita?” a beautiful boy called from the driver’s seat, and the girl nodded.

“Well, come aboard, then,” the boy said, and Gwen and the two vampires climbed in.

Within, the bus was almost as colorful, filled with cushions and settees, and hung with layers and layers of curtains. “Welcome, travelers,” a voice said from the back, and a curtain was moved aside by a tiny girl-child. Then a tall man with pale blue skin stepped out.

“Demon!” Spike hissed, and he and Angel drew swords. Behind them they heard the hum of Gwen’s power gearing for attack. 

The man held up his hands, palms out. “Peace,” he shouted. “I mean no harm.” The three hesitated and the man went on. “I am half-demon, true,” he said. “But believe me, I want these doorways closed as much as you do. Maybe more.”

“We’re listening,” Angel said, though he did not lower his weapon.

“I am Lal,” the man said. “Since my powers manifested, my father has done his best to pull me back to his dimension. It’s why I must stay on the move. If I stay in one place more than a few hours, he will open a portal and pull me through.” He turned his hands up. “You must believe me. There are nine people in this caravan besides me. If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

Spike and Angel dared to glance at one another, then listened intently. The man did not lie. Angel dropped his sword fractionally. “What’s the plan,” he said.

Lal sank gracefully onto a nearby chair, indicated for the others to sit and only shrugged when they did not. “It is Spike who contains Shanshu, is it not?”

“That’s right,” Spike said, “and believe me, I’m right anxious to get rid of it. Bargain basement prices, everything must go. You’re in a buyer’s market, mate. Just tell me where to sign.”

The blue man let the ghost of a smile cross his lips. “Unfortunately, it is not so simple.”

“Nothing ever is,” Angel said under his breath.

“For the sacrifice to truly have power, he must understand what he is giving up,” Lal said. “He must live the dream-life of Shanshu. If he can still deny this gift afterward, the most noble loss will close the lost gateway.”

Spike tilted his head, curious. “Dream-life..?”

“A trance, a vision,” Lal explained. “But to you it will be very real.”

Angel shook his head. “It isn’t fair,” he said. “If he doesn’t know, how can he give it up?”

“There will be clues, symbols, if he chooses to see them,” Lal said.

“So, what?” Spike said. “I’ll be in this happy Twilight Zone world with sun and flowers, and I’m expected to forget everything else?”

“Perhaps,” Lal said. “It is part of the test.”

“Bollocks, then,” Spike said. “I could never forget this life.” He looked at Angel and smiled fondly. “I could never forget who I love.”

“Then this will be simplicity itself,” Lal said, spreading his hands generously. 

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Gwen said quietly.

\- - - - -

Lal’s companions, other members of the Quadrivium Society and sympathetic friends, drew back the bus’s many curtains, opening it into one large space. Beds and other furniture were cleared away, leaving only one large, round bed. Lal led Spike to it by one hand.

“Lie down,” he instructed. “We cannot remain stationary for long.”

Spike did, and arched his neck to look at Angel. “I love you,” he said, and then he was under Lal’s spell.

\- - - - -

He awoke in a bedroom flooded with morning sunshine, under a cool cotton sheet. Beside him his wife awoke and sat up, combing her fingers through her sleep-tangled curls. She turned to him and smiled. “Good morning, darling,” she said brightly.

He smiled back sleepily and stretched. “Good morning, Cecily,” he said.

\- - - - -

Gwen sat beside Angel where he perched on the edge of the bed, staring worriedly down at his lover. “He’ll be okay,” she said.

“Look at him,” Angel said. “I know that smile. That’s real happiness. He’s had that so rarely, and we’re asking him to give it up.”

“It isn’t real,” Gwen said. 

“But it could be,” Angel replied. “He could have Shanshu. And salvation.”

\- - - - -

He sipped his coffee, bitter and too hot, hissed as his lips were burned. He reached into his in-bin, pulled out the top purchase order, entered numbers onto his computer. He fed a sheet of the company letterhead, “Hewes Linen Importers,” into his printer and waited for it to print.

Surreptitiously, he glanced sideways, making sure no one could see into his cubicle from the coffee-maker, then slid a folded piece of paper out from beneath his keyboard. “Like a leopard he waits, his body a coiled spring,” he scribbled. “Predator…”

“You have those payment due notices, yet?” a woman asked over his cubicle wall, and he jumped, covering the paper quickly with one hand. 

“Not just yet,” he stuttered. “Finishing the last two.”

“Good,” she said. “I’ll tell accounts.”

His phone rang and he picked it up. “Hello, darling,” Cecily said on the other end of the line. “How’s your day going?”

He slid the paper back out of sight. “You know. Same as usual,” he said.

“Listen,” Cecily continued. “I thought we might try the new French bistro downtown tonight. Can I swing by after work?”

“Sounds lovely,” he said.

\- - - - -

Spike gave a twitch and Angel reached for him, caught himself, turned to Lal. “Is it okay to touch him?” he asked.

“If you like,” Lal said. “He’s deep in the trance, now. He won’t know you’re there.”

Angel laid one hand over Spike’s, laced their fingers together.

\- - - - -

“I think we’ve taken a wrong turn,” Cecily said, looking out the window at the peep shows, strip clubs, and questionable bars that lined the block on either side.

“Yes, I think you’re right,” he said. He squinted against the neon glare, saw dark figures with their heads down, the occasional flash of a white face with lurid make-up and too tight, too shiny clothing. “I’ll ask someone for directions.”

Cecily shuddered dramatically. “No, don’t stop, darling. Just keep going until we get somewhere we recognize.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said, patting her hand. “Look, I’ll just ask that doorman.”

He pulled up to the curb, stepped out of the car where a line of patrons waited to enter a nightclub. A bouncer in black leather pants and a white, sleeveless t-shirt shined a flashlight into their faces, let them through one at a time.

“Er, excuse me,” he said, and the bouncer turned in his direction.

His first thought was that he’d met this man before, but that wasn’t possible. He’d have remembered. That face would surely have been burned into his memory.

“Sweetheart…” Cecily bleated from the car, and he had a flash of irritation at her presence.

“Er, yes,” he found himself stammering. “Could you tell me how to get to Summit Drive?”

The bouncer pointed, spoke, but he didn’t hear anything; His head was spinning. He went back to the car with his ears buzzing, began to drive without conscious thought.

“Oh, God,” Cecily said, her voice heavy with disgust. “Did you *see* them?”

He blinked himself back. “See who?”

“Waiting at that nightclub,” she said. “Sick perverts, all of them. Men… kissing. Each other! Horrible!”

But he was thinking of one man’s eyes, one man’s mouth. “I honestly didn’t notice,” he said.

\- - - - -

Angel clutched Spike’s hand, his head bowed. Gwen sat beside him, rubbing the small of his back gently. “He’ll come back,” she said. “He loves you.”

“I know,” Angel said. “That’s what scares me.”

Gwen frowned. “Why?”

“Everyone who loves me suffers.”

\- - - - -

Cecily wasn’t going to let it go.

“I mean, I’ve heard about men like that,” she said, her hairbrush zinging as she tried to beat her curls into submission. “But to actually *see* them. Ugh. They’re so dirty.”

“It’s just another kind of love, Cecily,” he burst out. “It’s not as though they’re hurting anyone.”

“I’m sorry, darling, but I can’t help my reaction,” she said. “It just makes me sick. And it’s not like it’s real love, anyway.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not natural, is it?” she said. “Not the way love is intended, to make children.”

He looked at her, frowned again. “Do you love me, Cecily?” he asked. 

She turned on him sharply. “What sort of question is that?” she said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Do you, Cecily?”

She turned back to the mirror. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’m your wife, aren’t I?”

\- - - - -

“How long has it been?” Angel murmured to Gwen. 

“About four hours, I think,” she said.

“We will need to move before too long,” Lal said. “I expected his decision to come more quickly.”

“It won’t be long,” Angel said, and he leaned over Spike and kissed his forehead. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “It doesn’t matter what you decide. I’ll still love you either way. I’ll love you always.”

\- - - - -

He couldn’t sleep, realized he’d been staring into the darkness for an hour and a half listening to Cecily’s light breathing as she slept, got out of bed and went into the bath. The yellow florescent light made his skin sallow and his eyes sunken in his reflection in the mirror over the sink. He looked dead. 

He ran a thin stream of icy water, splashed it over his face. It didn’t help; he still felt feverish.

He looked back into the bedroom, at his wife stretched out on the bed, and felt a sensation of vertigo. A snatch of a David Byrne song came to his mind: “This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife.”

And then he saw that man’s face again, the man outside the bar. Square, almost brutal, but he knew it could be tender, too. Somehow he knew how it would look when the man gazed on his lover. 

Something was wrong with him, and it was connected to that man. He walked out of the bath, through the bedroom. He didn’t even stop to change clothes, just walked downstairs in the t-shirt and drawstring pants he slept in. He got in the car, started it and hit the button for the automatic garage door. He had the vague thought that it was illegal to drive barefoot, but he didn’t stop.

He found the street without thinking about it, like he was led there by a string, found the nightclub, closing for the night. The lights and music had been shut off and in the harsh glare of the streetlights the façade had a derelict look, crumbling and pasted together. He thought for a wild moment that the beautiful man was gone, but no, he was there gathering the metal stands that held the velvet rope.

He stopped the car, got out, started towards the man. The man looked up, and there was a flash of recognition in his eyes. “You aren’t still lost, are you?” the man said with a grin.

He shook his head, came closer. “I… I had to come back,” he said. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

The man took his arm, and his hands were cool. “Come inside,” the man said. “I think you need some water or something.”

“No, I…” He stopped, looked up at the beautiful face. “Do I know you? Have we met? I mean, before tonight.”

The man looked confused, shook his head. “Can I call someone for you? You don’t look well.”

“No,” he said. “I came to see you.” He clutched at the man’s shirt suddenly. “You have to help me. I… I feel that very strongly. We have a connection somehow.”

The man pried his fists loose, held them gently. “Okay, okay,” the man said. “I’ll do what I can. What’s your name?”

Hot, stinging tears came to his eyes. “I don’t remember,” he said.

The man put an arm over his shoulders, began to lead him towards the building.

“What’s happening to me?” he said.

“I’m going to call your wife,” the man said. 

“No,” he said forcefully. “I need to stay with you.”

Something in the man’s face changed, became feral and dangerous. “Here? In the dark?” the man said. “You’d leave your life for this?” The man gestured up at the façade. It was now ancient, crumbling stone, black with moss and stinking of decay. “Stay with me?” the man asked. 

He felt like fire rippled under his skin. “Yes,” he breathed, then more boldly. “Yes.”

The man pulled him into the darkness of the entrance, so dark he could have been blind and not known it. He felt the man’s broad, rough hand against his cheek and thought, I will know these hands until death finds me. 

He felt the man’s lips cover his, softer than any man’s should have been. The kiss was brief, but tender, and tasted sharp, like copper. As the kiss broke he felt a sudden pain, a sharp burn in his heart. His knees buckled, he went limp in the man’s arms. “What’s happening to me?” he said again.

He felt the man’s mouth against his cheek, near his ear. “You’re dying, little one,” the man whispered, and he fell. 

\- - - - -

Spike came awake with a gasp, jerked upright. Angel reached out, pulled him close, ran his hands over Spike’s arms and body. “Are you okay? What happened? Are you still with me?”

Spike threw his arms around Angel’s neck, murmured against his throat, “I’m here. I’m here. Even there I knew you, I found you.”

Lal came forward, put one hand on the back of Spike’s head. “He has successfully given up Shanshu,” Lal said. “The third gateway has been closed.”

Spike looked up. “Closed? Already?”

“It closed when you allowed the dream-Angel to kiss you,” Lal said. “The decision shifted the power necessary for the gateways to be sealed.”

Angel held Spike’s face, began to kiss him over and over. “You did it, Spike. You were so strong and brave. I’m so proud of you.”

“I had to,” Spike said. “That’s all.”

“It was one of the hardest things I ever did, giving it up,” Angel said. “I would have given anything for you to not have to.”

“So it’s closed,” Gwen said happily. “Three down, one to go, hey? Bring on Gateway four.”

Just then one of Lal’s people, a girl of about nine, began to scream. Lal went to her, put his hands on her shoulders. “Dharani!” he said sharply, and the girl began speaking quickly in her own dialect.

After a moment, Lal spun towards the front of the bus. “Ishan!” He pointed to the boy who had been driving. “The demon clans are moving against us. Go! Go east! Now!”

Ishan leapt into the driver’s seat, cranked the engine, and the bus lurched forward. The girl, Dharani, continued to speak, and Lal listened intently. An older woman joined them, and after a moment Lal nodded to her. “Vijaya?”

She began to speak also, and after several minutes Lal thanked them and went back to Gwen and the vampires. “My seers tell me the demon clans are moving against us,” Lal said. “We have reason to believe the final gateway will be closed further east still. We will take you as far as we can.”

Angel nodded, but when Lal moved away to rejoin his people, Angel motioned to Gwen to sit beside them. He pulled her and Spike into a hug, smiled fondly.

“Listen to me,” he said quietly, still smiling. “We can’t travel with the QS anymore.”

Gwen started to glance nervously towards Lal, but Angel said quickly, “pretend I’m only praising you. We can’t trust any of them. We have to get away from this group as quickly as possible, find our own way to where we need to go next.”

He leaned close to Gwen, rested his head against hers. “And one more thing,” he said. “We have to split up. You can travel by day. We can’t.”

“I see your point,” Gwen said, smiling back. “But I’m leaving you the laptop.”

“We can’t…” 

“I’ll steal another,” Gwen said lightly, and Angel grinned for real.

\- - - - -

The bus came to a stop at a temple on the outskirts of town. “A man named Sahir will come for you,” Lal said. “Many blessings on your journey.”

“Thank you,” Angel said, giving a small bow.

As soon as the bus was out of sight, Gwen passed them her computer bag. “Meet you at the fourth gateway,” she said, and headed for a nearby hotel parking lot.

“I saw a rental place about two miles back,” Spike said. “They had motorcycles there.”

Angel looked down the moonlit road, shouldered his bags more firmly. “Race you,” he said, and was off like a shot.

With a laughing cry of outrage, Spike followed.


	19. After: The Alaska Eclipse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad things go down in Thailand.

The decrepit fishing boat pulled into dock, its three-man crew lassoing the wooden pilings. It groaned and creaked before coming to a rest against the truck tires lashed to the pier as a cushion, and then was still. Two dark figures leapt from the foredeck onto the pier, soundlessly moving towards the city, slightly blacker blurs in the darkness.

Angel and Spike had been moving generally east, but erratically, zig-zagging around southeast Asia in a so far successful attempt to elude the forces massing against them. Spike had gotten good at operating the laptop, but the news of events following the closing of the first three gateways had become more and more alarming.

Demon clans, now cut off from their home dimensions, made violent moves to seize and maintain control of territory and wealth. At the same time, the human organizations dedicated to their destruction were mobilizing, seeing this chaotic power shift as an opportunity to eradicate demon threats for good.

The Order of St. Michael was massing in Nepal, ready to take the battle to the next closing ritual, wherever it should be. The scattered remnants of Wolfram and Hart scrabbled to create even the semblance of a united front. Some of the more organized pockets of the Quadrivium Society had begun to seek out demon clans pre-emptively, routing them out of their nests. 

There were even rumors of squadrons of Slayers moving into the battlezones, taking out demons when the other lines of defense failed. That information was frustratingly vague, and Angel and Spike both wondered how deeply involved those they cared about were.

Now the two vampires had come ashore in another city in southeast Asia. They had lost track along the way of exactly where they were, only that they were rounding China, waiting for Wesley to channel himself through another medium and let them know where and when.

Angel’s shock at hearing his old friend’s voice (almost) had reawakened the still-unresolved guilt of what had happened between them, and he longed to tell Spike. Spike knew him better than any creature alive, they had a shared history decades long. Spike, more than anyone, might have understood. At the very least, Spike would not judge him; even the soul had not changed that. And right now, Angel longed for that acceptance.

But Spike was still reeling from his ordeal in India, and though he’d had no visions, they couldn’t count on their absence for long. 

When this was over, Angel promised himself, he and Spike would have a long talk. He never wanted secrets between them again.

\- - - - -

“You okay, mate? You don’t look all there.”

“Just thinking about the last few days,” Angel said. “It’s all too much.”

“No argument from me,” Spike replied, squinting as the breeze blew his cigarette smoke into his eyes.

He had led them both into a section of town that could have been a Hell district, if those sorts of distinctions were made in this part of the world. As it was, demons did business alongside humans whose dealings would rival the most evil dark gods. Here there were traffickers in magically-enhanced drugs, in weaponry and explosives, in human organs, and in sex-slaves as young as five.

It was as corrupt a place as existed on earth, but the chaos was a safer hiding place for the two vampires than a stone fortress.

Spike found a nightclub that “looked promising,” as he put it, and he and Angel took a table near the stage, under a purple spotlight that lit their pale skin in interesting ways. Spike watched the show with a cool detachment, which impressed Angel, as he had been previously unaware that such things were even anatomically possible, and sure enough, within two minutes a girl had approached their table.

She had a strange face, as though the veneer of a fifteen-year-old had been laid on that of a much older woman, which still showed underneath, like a gray shadow. She wore heels that looked like stilts, a pink vinyl miniskirt about six inches wide, and a black baby-doll halter with a pattern consisting of the word “fuck” printed over and over.

“Hey, you looking for a good time?” she said. “You want a date for tonight?”

Spike and Angel glanced at one another and Spike raised one eyebrow.

“You both want me at the same time?” the girl persisted. “Sandwich? Or me do one while the other watch? If you want I can call my girlfriend, we have a party. Only fifty dollar American.”

“Have a seat,” Spike suggested, and the girl slid in across from them. “What’s your name?”

“Oy.”

Spike glanced toward the door. “You got a room nearby… Oy?”

“You bet, mister.”

Spike held up a hundred-dollar bill folded between two fingers. “We want you to take us there, Oy. We want to stay there all night tonight, and all day tomorrow, and we’ll pay you another two-hundred dollars. Can we do that?”

She hesitated a moment, clearly wondering what kind of freaks she was hooking up with, then, “whatever you say, mister.”

\- - - - -

Oy’s “room” was a corrugated tin and plywood shanty in a warren of similar structures. Even at four a.m., the area was crowded with a disturbing mix of middle-aged western men and Asian children, none of whom seemed older than sixteen. Angel watched as a young teen boy “negotiated” with a sweaty, balding man in broken German while a skinny girl of about eight stood nearby, then he took Spike’s hand to keep from digging his nails into his own palm.

“It’s only for a day,” Spike promised. “A day and I’ll take you away from here.” His voice dropped lower. “And only one more gateway, yeah? We’ll find out where tomorrow and be done by next week.”

Oy led them into her home and lit an oil lamp. The smoky light revealed a futon, a couple of crates to serve as chairs and a cable-spool table. “You take turns or both together?” she asked, crossing her arms and grasping the hem of her halter. 

Angel recoiled, shocked, and Spike stepped quickly forward. “No, no, none of that,” he said, and she froze mid-strip. 

“Listen, Oy,” Spike said. “My friend and I are in a little bit of trouble, and we want to hole up in your room for awhile. Now… how much will it cost to make that happen?” He held up a few more hundreds, folded between his fingers, as before.

Oy looked quickly down at the money then up at Spike’s face, her street-toughness melting into confusion and a little fear. “My… boss,” she said uncertainly.

Spike extracted a few more bills and held them out to her. “How much will get you out of here permanently?” he said.

She looked at the money again, said nothing.

“I’m not lying, Oy,” Spike said. “This is big. You help us and we help you. How much?”

She took the leap. “Twenty-five hundred. American dollars.”

“Done,” Spike said, and he tossed her a roll of bills. “That’s five thousand. I want you gone by sunrise, Oy.”

Her face broke into a smile that revealed how young she really was. “Yes, mister. Thank you.” She went to a cardboard box, quickly gathered some clothes and a toy dog into a plastic bag. Within two minutes she was out the door.

“That was a good thing you did,” Angel said.

“Yeah, I’m the next Mother Teresa,” Spike replied. “Now help me. We have to get this rat-hole sun-proof by dawn.”

\- - - - -

Angel found he had no moral qualms whatsoever in calmly breaking the neck of Oy’s pimp when he came round the middle of the next morning, but although he and Spike had both subsisted on rats and other vermin in the recent past, they both deemed the greasy boy with the pencil mustache too pestilent to feed from and left him behind the shanty under a tarp.

By early afternoon, the thirty-hour laptop battery was dead, and the QS forums were no closer to pinpointing a location and time for closing the third gateway.

“We’ll have to risk checking into a real hotel,” Spike said. “Maybe if we stay in the tourist areas we can blend in more.”

“Or we can find a medium,” Angel suggested. “Contact Wesley ourselves.”

Spike massaged his temples with his fingertips. “Dammit,” he muttered. “Hurry, sundown.”

\- - - - -

As the afternoon deepened, the shanty-town began to fill with tourists and residents, and Angel and Spike watched through the curtains at the horrible business. “I wish I could buy freedom for all of them,” Spike said quietly, even as his lip curled in disgust, and Angel put a comforting arm around his shoulders.

Just before sunset, as the last dusty beams of light shone down the alleys between the shacks, they heard sirens and barking dogs, and shouts from nearby. “What the hell?” Spike said, and they heard a girl begin to scream outside the door.

They looked through the windows, saw policemen kicking down doors and dragging customers into the street.

“You can’t do this,” one man complained. “I am an American citizen.”

A brisk young woman in a blazer, carrying a clipboard, stepped out of the confusion. “That’s very interesting, sir,” she said. “I’m sure your local police department would be interested in knowing one of their citizens took a vacation to have sex with a…” She looked through the open door he had just exited. “…I’d say ten-year-old boy. Perhaps your wife or boss would like to know, too. Let me see your passport.”

As the man spluttered, Spike backed away from the windows to gather their bags. “We have to get out the second that sun goes down,” he said.

“They probably have the whole district surrounded,” Angel said. “We might have to punch our way out.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Spike said with a humorless grin.

And then their door was kicked down.

“Come out quietly,” said the figure framed in the doorway. “You’re under arrest.”

“For what?” Spike said, spreading his arms. “We’re the only two here, and we’re both well past the age of majority. And what’s your jurisdiction here, anyway… Yank.”

“Spike,” Angel hissed, holding up one hand, and he stepped closer to the door.

“Hello, Connor,” he said.

\- - - - -

All three stood frozen for a long moment, but the boy at the door spoke first.

“Dad?” he said, and his voice was small and filled with bewilderment. “What are you doing here?”

Angel glanced past him, at the last orange rays of sunlight extinguishing. “Spike, get the bags,” he said, and the younger vampire broke out of his stunned daze and began to move.

“What are you doing here?” Connor said more forcefully.

“We’re hiding,” Angel said. “There are a lot of very bad things that want us dead, and we needed to go someplace they couldn’t find us.”

“But… here?” The boy regarded the shanty with utter disdain.

“We paid for it, fair and square,” Spike protested, and Angel raised his hand again.

“I don’t want you involved,” Angel said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Connor took a step back. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said in a hushed voice and Angel laughed.

“I’m thinking the exact same thing,” he said.

Spike thrust two bags in Angel’s direction. “We have to go,” he said.

“When this is over, I’ll get in touch with you,” Angel said to Connor as they pushed past him. “I promise.”

Spike gave Connor a hard look of his own going by, and then he and Angel were moving through the maze of muddy alleys.

“I just have to clarify here, Angel,” Spike said. “That kid called you *Dad?* Did I hear that?”

“Spike, this isn’t the best time,” Angel said. “I’ll explain. Just not right now.”

“Yeah. I can’t wait…”

Connor dropped off the roof right in front of them.

“Bloody hell!”

“I’m staying at the Hilton,” Connor said. “Tourists, mostly, and businessmen. I can’t guarantee it’s clean, but I’m ninety percent sure.”

Angel gave a curt nod. “Thanks,” he said, and Connor sprang straight up back onto the roof and ran off.

“Bloody hell,” Spike repeated.

\- - - - -

They got out of the red-light district, made their way along the river to the business center, found the Hilton, a gleaming spire rising out of the decay. Angel got a room for Spike and himself; they showered, long, hot soaks that, even after scrubbing themselves pink, made them feel no cleaner. After, Spike filled the tub, washed out their clothes as best he could and hung them on the rod. Then he and Angel put on fresh outfits and repaired to the hotel lounge. They sat where they had a clear view of the entrance.

“So,” Spike said, the first word he had spoken since leaving the shantytown. “Dad?”

Angel downed his brandy, laced his fingers together. “It started with Wolfram and Hart,” he said. “They found a way to bring Darla back to life…”

\- - - - -

Several hours and many drinks later, Angel had exhausted his story to Spike’s varying degrees of shock, anger, and sadness.

“God, did the Powers jerk you around,” Spike said. “Fuckers.”

“I can’t say it was all bad,” Angel said. “I never expected to have a child, and Connor… I can’t tell you how amazing he is, Spike. When he was born, he was so…”

“Beautiful, incredible, miraculous, yes, you told me,” Spike said. “I got it.”

“Sorry,” Angel mumbled. “I can’t get over it myself, sometimes.”

“No, it’s okay,” Spike said. “Wish I’d known it earlier, is all.”

“I was going to tell you after we closed the fourth gate,” Angel said.

“I meant before,” Spike said. “When your boy was first born. I’m part of the family. I could have helped, maybe.”

Angel stared at him, unable to react. “Spike, I…”

Spike gave his head a dismissive shake. “No, that’s stupid,” he said. “I was different, then.”

Angel touched Spike’s wrist. “We both were.”

Spike gave a sad smile, looking down at Angel’s hand, then shook it off with a light laugh. “Still, water under the bridge, yeah? Can’t go back in time.”

“Yeah…” Angel said.

The front doors of the hotel slid open, admitting several people, some in business suits, some in paramilitary gear. Connor, in the latter group, spotted the vampires and nodded, pointed to his watch, mouthed “twenty minutes,” and headed for the elevator.

It was nearly half an hour until Connor came down, but he was smiling. He joined Angel and Spike at their table. “You’re the last person I expected to see,” he said, taking Angel’s hand. “What are the two of you doing here?”

“You know, demon stuff,” Angel said. “I’ll tell you in a minute; I’ve been talking for awhile now. What are you doing here?”

Connor sat down. “Started after I saw you last,” he said. “I had this power I didn’t know I had before. I knew I could do so much good.” He gave a small smile, said quietly, “you taught me that.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I found out about this lawyer, comes to places like this and does everything he can to make it very difficult for these scumbags who exploit children to do business. Pretty much, we shame these countries into enforcing their own laws and make it undesirable for potential customers to make the trip.”

“Hit ’em where the money is,” Spike said.

Connor grinned slyly. “Exactly.”

“So where do you fit in?” Angel said.

Connor leaned back. “They’ve found it’s helpful to have someone on your side who’s very hard to kill,” he said. He signaled for a waitress, then turned back. “So you have to tell me. What are you doing here?”

\- - - - -

“And that brings us up to this evening,” Angel concluded.

“Wow. That’s quite a story,” Connor said. “But I’m not sure on a few things. Like the last gate. What kept Spike from keeping Shanshu? What bound him to this plane?”

Angel and Spike exchanged glances, Spike looking away first, his expression tight.

“Well, Spike… and I…” Angel began, helplessly trying to explain without explaining, but a light seemed to click on over Connor’s head.

“Wait a minute,” he said, starting to laugh in disbelief. “Do you mean the two of you..?”

“Yes,” Angel said softly, and Spike turned back, sheepish.

“It’s like that sometimes with vampires,” Spike explained quickly. “The shared blood, the Sire, um… *offspring* relationship…”

“Spike…” Angel shushed him. “It is that way with vampires sometimes,” he said to Connor. “But in this particular case, I care very deeply for Spike. I love him. It’s much more than just blood.”

“Oh…” Connor considered this. “So this brings the total to four fathers, now,” he said. “My family tree is gonna look like the Gordian knot.”

“Yeah,” Spike agreed. “Especially since your mother is also your grandmother and I’m kind of your brother.”

“Nephew,” Angel corrected, earning a laugh from Connor and a glare from Spike. 

“Sir?” This was one of the hotel porters. “Are you Mr. Angel, sir?”

Angel and Spike were instantly wary. “Who wants to know?” Spike said.

“I have a phone message, sir,” the porter said, holding a folded piece of paper.

“I’ll take it,” Angel said, and the porter retreated.

“It’s from Wesley,” Angel read.

“Shit,” Spike muttered. “We forgot to check the laptop.”

“Kyoto, Japan. Four days,” Angel said, and re-folded the sheet. “He sends Connor his regards.”

“He’s good,” Spike said, impressed.

“Wait,” Connor said. “Is that the last gate?”

“God, I hope so,” Angel said.

“I’m coming with you,” Connor said.

“The hell you are,” Angel answered.

“Come on,” Connor cajoled him. “We have to leave the country by tomorrow anyway. I’d much rather go with you than back to school.”

“You’re skipping school?” Angel growled.

“Midterm break,” Connor said. “I don’t have to be back until Monday morning.”

“That is five days,” Spike said reasonably. “And we’ll be done in Japan in four.”

“Whose side are you on?” Angel said, even more annoyed now.

“The side where we have as many good fighters on our side as we can manage,” Spike came back.

“That’s two against one,” Connor said.

Angel crossed his arms and glowered at his two “sons.” “Okay,” he said after a minute, then pointed one finger at Connor. “But you do not get yourself into any combative situations without my say-so. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Connor said meekly.

“As for you,” Angel pointed at Spike, “this is not a holiday. You are to protect Connor at all times. And no bars.”

“Lighten up,” Spike said. “He’s… how old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“See that. He’s a grown man,” Spike said. “He doesn’t need Uncle Spike…”

“Nephew Spike,” Connor said.

The hotel doors slid open again, and all three turned, suddenly alert. Two enormous men and a squirrelly guy in a shiny suit entered and walked towards the reception desk.

“Demons?” Connor asked quietly.

“The two big ones, maybe,” Spike said, “but the one in the middle is looking for your lot.”

“Time to go,” Angel said, and they seemed to evaporate from the table.

\- - - - -

An hour before dawn, three dark figures entered a panel truck delivering wrapping paper to the city’s largest flower market, had it hotwired and pulling onto the main highway before the driver even realized it had been taken.

The non-flammable one of the trio quickly took the wheel while his companions secured their gear, and then hid themselves beneath blankets in the darkness.


	20. After: The Anand Karaj

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Japan, and the battle enters its endgame.

Spike, Angel, and Conner entered Kyoto in the way of the Samurai: on foot, carrying their belongings with them. It was the height of the Maple Festival, and the temples and shrines were open for the public to view the turning leaves. The trees were lit from below, and as they crossed the river the sight of the yellow leaves so illuminated made it seem as though the district were on fire.

Their clues, sent by email, were cryptic and vague, in case the demons had hackers, and often referred to things that only Angel remembered, things that clearly troubled him. Angel had grown quiet as they walked among the mossy gardens and teahouses. One might even have suggested he brooded.

“So where are we supposed to go?” Connor asked when he was hopelessly disoriented in the winding stone alleyways.

Angel drew out a folded paper, noted from “Captain Crewe’s” latest email. “I think it’s a teahouse,” he said. “The name is something about a child… and perfect happiness.”

“Christ,” Spike muttered. “These guys are utter sadists, too.”

“Could ‘perfect happiness’ also mean ‘bliss?’” Conner said.

Angel looked at him. “Why do you ask?”

Connor pointed to a chop carved above a teahouse entryway. “Sachiko,” he said. “‘Child of Bliss.’”

“That has to be it,” Angel said.

“You speak Japanese?” Spike was impressed.

“Read, mostly,” Connor said. “Understand a bit more than I speak. I got into anime in a big way in high school, kind of became an anti-dubbing elitist, and, um, never mind. It’s hopelessly geeky.”

Angel gave him a look until Connor exploded, “What?!”

“Just amazed at how complex the story is they created for you,” Angel said. “When this is over, I want to hear about it.”

“I’d like to tell you,” Connor said.

A woman in a white kimono came to the teahouse gate. “You are Angel, Spike, and Connor?” she asked in perfect English.

“Yes,” Angel said.

She bowed deeply. “I am Chiyo,” she said. “We are most honored to welcome you. Sachiko-san has asked me to invite you to refresh yourselves, and then she will meet with you in the rose tearoom.”

The three men returned the bow and followed her to one of the teahouse’s private cottages. Chiyo knelt beside the rice-paper door and slid it back, then went inside to light the lanterns. 

“Take off your shoes,” Angel instructed them, and they followed Chiyo in.

“The shower is through there,” she indicated, “and the tub is in the back. Your futons are in the cabinet, there, and you can ring for a servant if you want tea or food. Will there be anything else?”

Angel bowed again. “Thank you, not right now,” he said.

“Very good,” Chiyo said. “I will come back for you in five hours.”

She withdrew, and Connor checked his watch. “That’s three a.m.,” he said.

“Yes,” Angel said. “The teahouses live by night, too.”

“Look at this,” Spike said from the closet. “Pajamas.”

“They’re traditional clothes,” Angel said. “But I’ll meet you all out back.” And he headed for the shower, shedding his clothes.

\- - - - -

A short while later, Angel and Spike sat in the steaming Jacuzzi, entirely motionless as the heat worked into exhausted and aching muscles. Connor stepped onto the wooden deck, and Angel opened one eye to look at him.

“I was kind of concerned about coming out here,” Connor said. “I’m glad to see I shouldn’t have worried.”

“That’s because we need to save our strength,” Spike said. “Stay out of our way after we close the gate tomorrow, though, junior.”

Connor stepped down into the water, groaned with relief. “I wonder if I can catch a few hours of sleep,” he said.

“What’s your group going to do next?” Angel said. “Are they gonna be okay without you?”

“Yeah, they’ll be fine,” Connor said. “They’re going to Thailand for two days, then a 20-hour layover in Vegas before heading back to School. Thailand’s actually really cracking down since they’re trying to market themselves on the natural beauty and native culture.”

“Making the world safe though capitalism,” Spike said cheerily. 

“Knock, knock!” Gwen’s voice floated in from the house.

“We’re out here,” Angel said, and she slid the door open.

“Heard you guys finally made it,” she said, stepping onto the patio. She was dressed in a pale green robe and had her hair twisted up with sticks. “So, who’s the Tommy ad?”

Angel glared at her while Spike grinned. “This is Connor,” Angel said. “He’s my son.”

“Glad to meet you,” Connor said, and held out one hand.

“Better not,” Gwen said, holding up both hands in a stay-back gesture. “I’m Gwen, the electro-girl. Controlled, mostly, but a little unpredictable around water. So, Angel’s son, huh? Are you a vampire, too?”

“Uh, no,” Connor said.

“Half-vamp, like Blade?” Gwen suggested, earning a derisive snort from Spike.

“No. All human,” Connor said.

“Super-human, I’d say,” Angel said proudly.

“Yeah, well…” Connor tried not to blush. “It’s just, you know, a little extra power.”

Gwen gave a conspiratorial grin. “It’s cool, isn’t it?”

And Connor did blush, then, just a little.

\- - - - -

At 3 a.m., Chiyo led them into a room with a long table and cushions. “Sachiko-san will be here shortly,” she said, and busied herself serving tea and sake and plum wine.

Their hostess entered, a slender, middle-aged woman with iron-gray hair pulled into a loose bun. She wore an elaborate blue kimono embroidered with cranes and willow trees. She spoke in Japanese, and Chiyo translated. “Please be seated. We have much to discuss.”

Angel, Spike, Connor, and Gwen, all dressed in the traditional clothes given to them, sat around the table while Sachiko took the head. She said something to Chiyo and the younger woman fetched a large, shallow bowl of polished copper and a pitcher. At Sachiko’s direction, she placed the bowl in the middle of the table and filled it with water from the pitcher. Then she sat slightly to the right and a bit behind her mistress and began to translate.

“We have reached the final step,” she said. “If we are successful, then the final gateway will close, cutting our world off from every other. Now open your minds, and I will show you the Quadrivium Society’s ultimate goal, a goal which will bring a new era for humanity.”

Sachiko indicated the bowl, and pictures began to form within, unscrolling like a film.

“Closing the gateways is not an end in itself. It is only the vital first step in the rebirth of humankind as masters of this plane. Once cut off from their home dimensions, supernatural evil will be weakened, and easily destroyed.”

The bowl showed groups of demons, including some that Spike and Angel had fought, being overwhelmed and killed by groups of humans.

“Evil sorcerers will be at a great disadvantage, as they will not be able to tap into the stream of black energy that fuels their spells.”

They watched as, in the bowl, a warlock tried to cast a spell, failed, and was bound by two witches.

“Then, once threat has been eliminated by supernatural means, the Quadrivium Society will be free to reveal themselves, to guide humans to a new consciousness, a new age of peace and enlightenment.”

Now the bowl showed people using various magical powers to heal disease, feed the hungry, then shifted to reveal magic being used to stop violent crime, and then stopping a larger conflict between two groups of armed soldiers.

“No,” Angel said quietly. 

The bowl clouded and all at the table turned to him. “No,” Angel repeated.

“You doubt us, vampire?”

“No, I don’t,” Angel said. “That’s the problem.”

“Angel?” Spike hissed nervously. “What are you..?”

“You’re talking about more than just closing gateways,” Angel said. “You’re talking about taking over the world.”

“We are talking about peace, and prosperity for all of humanity.”

“Dad..?” Connor looked towards Angel, frowning with confusion.

“It’s peace, yes,” Angel agreed, turning to his son, “but it’s Jasmine’s kind of peace.”

Connor’s expression grew instantly hard, and he pushed angrily away from the table.

“Closing the last gate will unleash chaos,” Chiyo translated. “Without us standing ready, it will be faction against faction; It will be anarchy.”

“I would rather live free in chaos,” Angel said, “than live as a slave to order.” And then he, too, stood.

Spike hesitated, only a moment, then rose and went to Angel’s side.

Gwen grinned, then shrugged. “What can I say?” she said. “I’m not really the law and order type.”

“We thank you for your hospitality,” Angel said, and made a small bow, and then they all exited in a group.

\- - - - -

“Well that was just brilliant!” Spike exploded when they got back to the garden. “We’re less than twenty-four hours from the window for closing the last gateway, every demon in the eastern hemisphere is trying to kill us, and you decide to tell off the one person within a hundred miles of here who knows what’s going on. I love you, Angel, but you can be right thick sometimes.”

“Konnichiwa.” A man in a light-brown robe stepped out in front of them. “Are you the honorable Angel-san?”

“Yes he is,” Spike snapped. “Who the hell are you?”

“I am called Kaemon,” the man said. “I was told you would be here. I am to bring you to my home.”

“Told by whom?” Angel said, his voice low.

“The ghost of an Englishman who has been keeping my son awake for the last three hours.”

“Give us ten seconds to get our things.”

\- - - - -

Kaemon’s home was much more modest than the teahouse, a three-room apartment above a wigmaker’s shop where he lived with his young son. Kaemon was a shamisen teacher to the handful of geisha still in Kyoto, but like many traditions, the art was dying out.

His son, Toshiro, had actually been adopted from one of Kaemon’s students as a newborn. He had always been a frail, somewhat sickly child, but bright and artistic, perceptive and sensitive to supernatural forces. He spoke to animals and birds, as well as invisible “dragons” and spirits. He could identify illness in people, and sometimes seemed almost telepathic. Kaemon had sheltered him all his life, carefully nurturing his delicate nature. He dreamed he might one day be a great painter or calligrapher.

Best of all, from Angel’s perspective, neither had ever used a computer. They didn’t even own their own telephone. They knew nothing of the Quadrivium Society.

\- - - - -

They gathered in the apartment’s large main room, Toshiro on a low stool while the rest encircled him on the floor.

“Is Wesley here now?” Angel asked, his voice hushed, and Toshiro nodded.

“He is standing behind your right shoulder.”

“Bugger me,” Spike muttered.

“Ask him if he still thinks we need to close the fourth gateway,” Angel said.

“He can hear you, Angel,” Toshiro said, trying not to smile. “And he says yes. It is still a good plan.”

“What about the QS?” Connor said. “Won’t closing the gate bring about their ‘new age’ anyway?”

“No,” Toshiro said. “Their ritual would have drawn power from their enemies, weakening them before they even took the field. We will use another source. There will be chaos, yes, but it will not allow one faction to easily rise to power.”

“So you know how to do the ritual?” Angel asked.

“Yes,” Toshiro said.

“What will the power source be?”

Toshiro gave a small, knowing look. “You, Angel.”

“No,” Spike said firmly. “We didn’t come this far for him to die.”

“He won’t die,” Toshiro said. “We will use the power of his identity built over the past three centuries.”

Now Angel laughed. “Are you serious?”

“There is power in names,” Toshiro said. “The QS knows it. The names they choose for themselves give them power, and focus it. You know it, too, which is why you became Angelus, why William became Spike.”

“So how will this work?” Spike asked. “Will he have to give up his name?”

“He may call himself whatever he likes,” Toshiro said, “but the names Angel and Angelus will no longer hold power. There will be no automatic fear in the heart of his enemy, no reassurance for his ally. No recognition of him at all outside of those with whom he already has fellowship.”

“How can that have power?” Angel said. “It’s meaningless.”

“It is not,” Toshiro insisted. “It may be your greatest strength.”

“Than take it,” Angel said. “How do we do it?”

Toshiro glanced toward his father. “It will be easier if I write it down,” he said. “May I have my brushes and ink..?”


	21. After: Full Hunter Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it all falls down.

Kaemon insisted that Toshiro get at least a few hours sleep before transcribing the ritual, so Gwen and Connor left in search of breakfast while Angel and Spike stretched themselves out on the floor to get a few hours sleep themselves.

Later in the morning, Toshiro was hard at work, writing out incantations and diagrams in a smooth, flowing hand. Connor sat at his side, since it was decided he would do any recitation, listening carefully as Toshiro told him how to pronounce unfamiliar words and explained their meaning.

Gwen and Kaemon had gone out to gather the items needed, the music teacher among his own friends in the district, Gwen in her own way.

Angel, knowing he had to be prepared in body and spirit for the ordeal ahead, and perhaps inspired by their surroundings, was pacing himself through the slow, liquid forms of Tai Chi, clearing and focusing his mind.

Spike moved restlessly about the small apartment, trying, and failing, to sleep in the darkened bedroom, becoming quickly bored with the laptop, and hovering about the two boys, trying to figure out what they were talking about without actually asking them.

Finally, Angel couldn’t stand it any longer. He broke his form, went to Spike and took his wrist. “Come over here with me,” he said.

“What for?” Spike asked, equal parts annoyed and suspicious.

“I’m going to teach you some Tai Chi.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “You mean the ancient art of boring your enemies to death?”

Angel ignored him. “Stand up straight, put your feet about as far apart as your shoulders…”

\- - - - -

Spike thought he ought to make some protest, call Angel a name and refuse to participate, but when Angel put his hands on Spike’s to show him how to press his palms together, he couldn’t remember why he would want to do such a thing.

Spike looked over to where Connor and Toshiro were bent over their work, their backs to the vampires, and indicated them to Angel with a jerk of his head. He expected Angel to take the lesson into the bedroom, but instead he turned Spike’s body so he now faced away from the boys. He let his hands linger a moment on Spike’s hips, until Spike tensed uncomfortably, then circled around in front of him.

“The first movement is called ‘fish jumping the rocks,’” Angel said, and Spike snorted.

“You’re putting me on,” he said.

Angel grinned. “Not at all. Wait until we get to ‘fending off ape.’ Now, extend your left arm forward, like this…”

Angel talked more or less continuously through the lesson, dryly naming the positions of the forms, and describing how to do them correctly, just a teacher with his student. But physically, he circled Spike tightly, touching his arms, stroking his torso. The command to obey was unspoken, but implicit, and Spike allowed his limbs to be extended, his body opened to his lover’s careful attention.

Having the mortal youths in the room, close but unaware of the mounting ardor, only made the game more arousing, and Spike wondered just how far Angel would go. Each small step further made him shiver with excitement.

So when Kaemon and Gwen returned with the items for the ritual, and Angel stepped casually away to match Spike’s position, Spike wanted to cry out in disappointment. Angel drew himself back to standing.

“That’s enough for today,” Angel said. “Let’s hit the shower.”

Spike wasn’t sure how he got to the bath, supposed Angel must have led him there, but then the water was on full-force, echoing in the tiny room and filling it with steam. “Don’t move,” Angel growled at him, and Spike stood perfectly still.

Angel stripped out of the traditional clothes he still wore from the teahouse, turned back to Spike gloriously naked and hard with desire. Spike sucked in a hiss of breath, and Angel put his fingers on Spike’s lips. “Not a sound,” he said, and stripped off Spike’s clothes, as well.

Angel stared at Spike’s naked body, then pressed himself full-length against Spike, embracing him tightly. “I’m afraid, Spike,” he said into Spike’s ear. “This ritual, it seems so strange. There has to be more to it.” He lowered his voice even more. “I have you here, and I have Connor, the two people I love most in the world, and I want to protect you.”

Angel kissed Spike’s cheek and throat, pushed hard against him. “This ritual… I’m afraid it will take away my ability to keep you safe. That’s the only thing I have with the power they need.” He spun Spike around, pulled him under the streaming water. He kissed Spike on the mouth, lingering, still, then pulled away. 

“And this may be the most selfish thing I’ve asked of you so far,” Angel said, again at Spike’s ear. “But if, when this is done, I have forgotten you all… do everything in your power to convince me to love you again.”

Spike nodded, confused by Angel’s sudden outburst.

Angel took a step back, ran his hands down Spike’s torso. “This body should be worshiped,” he said. “Seeing you now, I suddenly realized all I could lose. It scares me. You deserve to be loved, and I’m the only one who knows how much. I don’t ever want you to lose that.”

Spike nodded again, following his lover’s pretzel logic well enough to recognize a profound declaration of love. “If the worst should happen,” he said, “I swear that I will.”

“Thank you, Spike,” Angel said in a reverent whisper, and he fell to his knees before the younger vampire, took Spike’s hard length into his mouth as though receiving a sacrament.

Spike’s head fell back against the cool tiles, and he groaned as Angel venerated his body with lips and tongue and hands. When he came, he let himself fall forward, wrapping himself over Angel, a shelter of flesh.

\- - - - -

Spike and Angel returned to the apartment’s main room, Angel in some of Kaemon’s robes and Spike in jeans and his beloved “Paris” t-shirt. The others had arranged a futon for Angel in the middle of the floor, set lanterns at each corner. Toshiro and Connor pored over the scrolls Toshiro had written while Gwen arranged the items they needed and Kaemon scattered rice on the floor to banish any evil spirits.

“You ready for this?” Spike asked quietly.

“Not really,” Angel said. “How did you get to be the brave one?”

Spike looked over to Connor. “You’ve got more to lose,” he said.

Kaemon came forward and took Angel’s arm. “This way,” he said. “We need to get started as soon as the sun sets.”

Angel hesitated, then cupped one hand around the back of Spike’s head and kissed him. “I love you,” he said, and followed Kaemon to the futon.

“So didn’t need to see that,” Connor opined, and Spike turned to him with a smug smile.

“Get used to it, kid,” he said.

Angel lay on the soft mattress, spread out his limbs. Kaemon beckoned to Spike and made him kneel by Angel’s head, handed him a jar of cedar-scented oil. “You must anoint his brow,” Kaemon said, “then his eyelids and lips.”

Spike nodded, dipped two fingers into the oil.

“Begin,” Toshiro said, and Connor began to recite the incantation.

“I love you,” Spike mouthed, and he drew a stripe of oil across Angel’s forehead.

Angel’s eyes widened, just for a moment, then fluttered closed. Spike looked up at Toshiro, saw him nod, and spread another sheen of oil on the delicate skin of Angel’s eyelids. His hand was shaking when he at last did Angel’s mouth.

Gwen picked up a small, hanging bell and struck it with a small hammer four times. Connor began a new verse and Toshiro crossed the room to join Spike and his father.

“We need to do his throat next,” Toshiro said, “then last of all his heart.”

Kaemon bent forward and opened the front of Angel’s robes, moved aside as Spike anointed his lover’s vulnerable flesh, the only places a mortal wound could be struck on a vampire.

Gwen struck the bell again, and Connor concluded his recitation. In the lanterns, the flames flared briefly, then guttered out. They all stayed silent for several long minutes, holding their breaths, waiting.

“What happens now?” Spike whispered to Toshiro.

Toshiro looked to the corner where Spike presumed Wesley was. “We need to wait,” Toshiro said. “Since this gateway is in time, its closing is a process. Angel will wake when it is done.”

Spike looked worriedly down at his lover. “Would it be all right if I held him?” he asked.

Toshiro looked to the corner again. “Yes,” he said.

Spike moved onto the futon, lifted Angel’s head and shoulders to lie in his lap. He stroked the soft, brown hair, now chin-length and gently curling. “Sleep easy, Angel,” Spike murmured. “I’ve got you. I’ll be here for you, always.”

Kaemon got to his feet, tapped his son on the shoulder and moved towards the kitchen. He nodded to Connor and Gwen, but while Gwen joined him in making tea, Connor moved to join the vampires on the floor.

“How is he?” he asked Spike.

“Seems okay,” Spike said. “Very deeply asleep, is all.” He let out a stuttering breath. “God, I pray this works.”

“He loves you very much,” Connor said.

Spike looked up, surprised. “I… I know,” he said. “He loves you, too.”

Connor nodded. “I know that now,” he said. “Now that I’ve had a life where I understand what love is, I know how much it cost him to give me away.”

“Is that how you remember it?” Spike said. “As another life?”

“It’s strange,” Connor said. “Most of the time Holtz, and Quor-toth, they seem like a series of vivid dreams I had a long time ago. Other times, it’s the San Rafael Mountains that were the dream. Maybe that’s why I went to school so far away from home, so I could distance myself from all of it. But everything that happened since I came back is all shuffled together, like I fought with Angel and lived with Cordelia and went back to my family the next day and took the SAT and played my Gamecube.”

“You have a Gamecube? How is it?”

“It’s okay. I really wanted a PS2, but the pirates at Pest Buy convinced my mom that Gamecube was the better deal.”

“Bastards. I had a PS2, but I had to leave it in L.A. Hoping to get another one when this is all over.”

“What are your plans now that we’re almost done?” Connor asked.

“Hadn’t thought about it too much,” Spike admitted. “I didn’t think it would be as bloodless as it has been. Still don’t believe it, truth be told. I’m waiting for the earth-shattering ka-boom.” He looked down at Angel, twined his fingers through a lock of hair. “I know I want to be with your dad,” he said. “Everything else is a detail.”

“You could join the Exploited Children Rescue,” Connor said. “They’ve been surprisingly receptive to my… exceptional nature, and I know you guys could help. I mean, I saw the dead pimp.”

Spike grinned, then quickly replaced it with a scowl. “Don’t tell Angel you saw his handiwork,” he said. “I think he wants to keep you innocent.”

“Way too late for that,” Connor muttered, and both fell silent for a long moment.

“So how were you made?” Connor said. “What was my dad like in the old days? And… did you know my mother very well?”

Spike smiled fondly. “Your mother,” he said, “was a cast-iron bitch dressed up like Little-Bo-Peep. All ruffles and curls for her, as perfect as a China doll. She’d have the servants fussing with her hair and clothes for hours. And when we didn’t have servants, she’d make Angelus do it.”

Connor laughed. “You’re kidding!”

“Not at all,” Spike insisted. “You never saw a vampire as devoted to his Sire as Angelus was to her, nor a Sire as indulgent of her offspring. And Angelus was not one to shrink from a fight, as you well know. Stood up to the Master, the head of our Order and one of the most powerful vampires in the world in his time. If Darla had tried to control him by force, Angelus would have laughed at her and pushed her into the gutter, but no. It was love that bound them to each other. A mad, twisted love, but love nonetheless.”

“Holtz told me how evil they were,” Connor said. “How they destroyed everything he ever loved.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Spike said. “As much as they loved, they could be that cruel, too. I was the youngest, and felt Angelus’s cruelty more than most.”

“How can you reconcile that?” Connor asked. “As badly as he treated you?”

“He was a different person, then,” Spike said. “I can’t explain it. I didn’t understand it either until I felt it for myself.”

“I saw him without the soul,” Connor said. “Briefly. He was so… calculated in his evil. I knew then that Holtz told me the truth.”

“Angelus… was more focused without the soul, and after he came back, when he understood the transient nature of his control, he knew he only had a limited time to accomplish his evil. But now he knows, the loss of the soul will *always* be temporary. Love will find a way to overcome.”

“You sound pretty confident.”

“I’ve been hanging in love’s chains for a century and a half,” Spike said. “It’s the one unstoppable force in the universe.” 

Connor nodded, slowly.

\- - - - -

Angel woke, found Kaemon’s apartment completely dark, only the outside lights shining yellow through the maple leaves providing the faintest illumination. He pushed himself onto his elbows, saw that Connor slept at his left side, sprawled out, and Spike slept at his right, curled up tight.

Across the room, Gwen dozed in a chair, a cold cup of tea at her right hand.

Angel sat up, leaned over Spike, smiling, and lowered himself down to kiss his lover’s cheek. Spike’s eyelids fluttered, and he turned to see what had disturbed his sleep.

Then he gave a bellow of fear and rage.

He scrambled out from under Angel’s body, shouting an alarm, kicked Angel in the head with all his strength. Angel toppled back, his bell properly rung, and felt Connor drag him onto the floor and drop his full weight onto Angel’s shoulders.

“Who the hell are you?” Connor demanded. “Who sent you?”

Spike was on his feet now, standing over them. “Careful, Connor. He’s a vampire.”

“Get a stake, then,” Connor said calmly.

“Spike? Connor? It’s me,” Angel said.

“You, who?” Spike said. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“It’s Angel,” Angel said through gritted teeth. “Drusilla’s Sire? Angelus?”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Drusilla’s Sire was Darla. I know my own bloodline.”

“And Connor,” Angel persisted. “I’m your father.”

“My father is a banker in California,” Connor informed him.

“Dru’s Sire? His father?” Spike scoffed. “At least vary your story, Lord Vader.”

Now Gwen was awake. “Who’s this?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Connor said.

Spike produced a wooden stake. “Just dust him,” he said.

“No, wait!” Angel said. “Did we close the fourth gateway?”

“Christ, I knew it,” Spike said. “Dust him now, Connor!”

Connor took the stake, held it to Angel’s heart. “We closed it, you son of a bitch,” he snarled. “No thanks to you.”

\- - - - -

“He’s crying,” Connor said, and Spike looked down, cradled his lover’s face in his hand, pressed his lips to Angel’s temple.

“Come back to me,” he murmured, and Angel opened his eyes.

“Spike?” he whispered, and Spike bent close to him.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m here,” Spike said, and Angel reached up, pulled him into an embrace.

“You’re here,” Angel said, and kissed Spike’s face over and over.

Connor began to rise, when Angel grabbed his wrist. “Is it you?” he said.

Connor rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s me,” he said.

Gwen, Kaemon, and Toshiro entered from the kitchen and the boy came close to Angel, touched the top of the vampire’s head with his fingertips. 

“The fourth gateway is closed,” Toshiro said.

Gwen and Connor whooped with joy, throwing their arms around one another and jumping up and down before self-consciously pulling away with embarrassed looks and clearing of throats. Angel laughed with happiness and delight and rolled Spike onto his back to kiss him until he lay blinking in a daze.

Kaemon, ever-confident of his son’s abilities, only patted the boy proudly on the shoulder, but there was a lifetime of love in that touch.

“Okay,” Connor announced once the general exuberance had subsided. “I’ve got thirty-six hours to get to class. Gwen, can I borrow your cell–”

And the room was suddenly shaken by an enormous boom from a nearby explosion. There were terrified screams from the street below, and the blaring of a half-dozen car alarms. Inside the apartment, Toshiro began to gibber in Japanese. 

“It’s the Sachiko teahouse,” Kaemon translated. “It’s been attacked. A tribe of demons has taken their revenge for closing off the gateways.”

“But they didn’t do anything,” Angel said, getting to his feet. “We’re the ones who closed it.”

“They don’t know that,” Toshiro said quietly. “They don’t know you. They don’t know what you’ve done. Your identity in the greater world is gone, Angel.”

“But what about the Quadrivium Society?” Spike said. “They know him.”

“A few knew him, for a day or two,” Toshiro explained. “Some will remember, most will forget. The rest only know him from vague references on the websites, codes and ciphers. They have already forgotten.”

“That means…” Angel breathed.

“…the QS takes the blame for it,” Gwen concluded.

“The demon clans will all come down on them,” Angel said. “They’ll hunt them out.”

“But the Slayers, and the knights,” Spike said, reassuring. “They’ll fight back. We can let them know about each other. They can join…”

“No,” Angel said wearily. “I chose to do it this way. To ‘live free in chaos,’ We’ve changed the world, maybe for better, maybe for worse, but the point was to tip over the apple cart. We can’t ally either side, now.”

“So it’s done,” Connor said.

“It’s done,” Angel agreed.


	22. After: All Hallow's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What comes after "After."

The Exploited Children Rescue Network, or, more correctly, their insanely wealthy author/lawyer/entrepreneur- founder/benefactor, arranged for Connor and his three companions to fly out of Kansai airport an hour before dawn. They would layover, briefly, in Seattle and arrive in New York City overnight. Connor would make his 9 a.m. Fine Arts class at Cornell, and Gwen, Angel, and Spike would be met by representatives of the ECRN and taken to meet with their recruiters.

When they left Kaemon’s apartment, Angel noticed Gwen leaving a light-blue cardboard box under the table, and realized her time in Kyoto before their arrival had been well-spent.

Navigating out of the district proved to be somewhat tricky, as the demon clans, seeing their last chance at returning to their home dimensions vanished, were taking their revenge wherever they could. The chaos put Spike in mind of the Boxer Rebellion, though it could also have been all of the Asian people running around. Well, that and the fires.

Spike had expected them to be targets, but the plan for closing the gateways had been centered around Angel. When Toshiro had taken his identity, their recognition of him went, too. To the demons in the streets, he was just another vampire.

Within minutes of the first demon attack, members of the Quadrivium Society who’d been prepared for this eventuality fought back. They contained the perimeter, quenched fires, and healed the wounded.

Within an hour, the advance forces of the Order of St. Michael roared into the district on their motorcycles. They clashed with bands of demons in temples and parks. Angel watched from the apartment window, hoping for a glimpse of Gunn’s dark head, but did not see him. He hoped he was still alive, and safe, somewhere far away.

By midnight, the Slayers had begun to arrive. Less organized than the knights, they more than made up for it with ruthless and deadly efficiency, and soon had pushed all but the most foolhardy demons into retreat.

With a growing dread, Angel and his companions realized that the spell that protected them from focused attack cut the other way, and their potential allies would not know anything of them. The demons would ignore them; to knights and Slayers, they were another potential threat.

In the end, they just made a run for the airport, avoiding what they could, fighting and retreating when they had to. By the time they boarded the plane, Spike and Angel in the last row, Gwen and Connor a row ahead, they were all exhausted in body and mind.

As the plane rose into the air, Spike felt himself pulled into Angel’s arms and held tightly, possessively, a living security blanket. He couldn’t find it in himself to even tease the big lug.

Eventually, Angel fell into a deep sleep, where there were mercifully no dreams.

\- - - - -

Later, when he awoke, he could hear Spike’s chuckle, low and throaty. “I swear by all things holy and unholy,” he said, “a God-damned puppet. Felt and stuffing and little button eyes…”

“I did not have button eyes,” Angel growled.

“Oh, hello, pet,” Spike said cheerily. “We were just talking about you.”

“Seriously?” Gwen said. “That may be the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t know,” Connor said with a shudder. “Sounds creepy to me. I mean, soul-sucking toys? That’s just wrong.”

Gwen gave a sympathetic smile and patted Connor’s hand.

“So, Spike,” Angel said. “Maybe you should tell them the diabolically clever way the Nazis managed to capture you…”

\- - - - -

They stumbled through the terminal at JFK, bleary-eyed and stiff from the flight, but finally feeling that this part of their mission was complete. “I’ll get some taxis,” Connor said, heading for the exit, but Spike caught his arm. 

“Connor,” he said quietly. “I have to take your dad away from here.”

“Spike…” Angel began, but Spike held up a hand to quiet him. 

“Shut up, Angel,” he said. “I’m talking to your son.” He turned back to Connor. “We’re done for now. Your father needs to rest, and heal. We both do. But I don’t want to take him away from you. I would never do that. So just give me your address and I’ll write when we’ve settled in somewhere.”

“Spike…” Angel tried again, but Connor cut him off by pulling a business card from his inside pocket.

“That’s my land line, cell, e-mail, and IM,” Connor said. “I want to hear from you by tonight.”

Angel gave an exasperated sigh and decided not to argue. He was too tired anyway. 

“Well, I kind of thought this would happen,” Gwen said, “so…” She pulled an oversized envelope from her backpack and handed it to the two vampires. “This is for you.”

Angel took it warily. “What is it?”

“Access cards for a numbered Swiss account,” she said. “I figure fourteen million ought to set you up for the first couple decades. Then you’re on your own.”

“Gwen…” Angel said, but Spike clapped her arm.

“You foxy thing,” he said. “What’d you boost?”

She gave a casual shrug. “Just a bunch of 12th-century scrolls from the Kyoto Museum. Some kind of poetry. The buyer was real hot to get them, though. Anyway, enjoy!”

Angel pulled his son into a hug. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.” He held him again at arm’s length. “I’m very proud of you,” he said. “I love you, Connor.”

Connor gave a quick grin. “I know,” he said, and stepped away. “Take good care of him, Spike.” He started to turn, when Gwen put her arm across his shoulders. 

“I could use a high-test cappuccino,” she said. “Care to join me?”

Connor looked uncertain. 

“Come on,” she urged. “There’s gotta be a Starbucks around here somewhere.” And she led him off, arm dropped to his waist, now. Spike and Angel watched them go. 

“So,” Spike said when they’d been lost to view. “A million’s the one with six zeros, right?” Angel nodded dumbly, and Spike hoisted his bags. “Let’s go to long-term parking, then,” he said.

\- - - - -

Spike, fully intending to cover their tracks by not only ditching the car they stole but making sure it was never seen again, carefully picked the car he deemed most likely to have been abandoned in long-term parking: a rust-colored, mid-seventies sedan. He ignored Angel’s protests, which were half-hearted anyway, and had the doors open and the engine running within a minute and a half. He bundled Angel into the passenger seat and hit the highway at an unusually moderate rate of speed, in deference to the vehicle’s possible imminent self-destruction.

He went west, and south, his rudimentary knowledge of American geography telling him this was away from the population densities. As Angel dozed fitfully, or sat quietly, Spike turned onto roads that seemed more woods than buildings, more sky than streetlight.

A little more than two hours later, they followed a twisting highway through hills of stone, and along a river that reflected the nearly-full moon in a thousand shifting faces.

At the bottom of the valley, the road passed by a small town park, and a train stop with an old steam engine. At a silver diner car, it turned abruptly left, between a row of shops and city hall, both mid-nineteenth century.

Spike slowed the car to read the orange banner that stretched above them between two light poles. “Pumpkin Festival,” it read, then below, “Crafts, Food, Jack-O-Lantern & Costume Contests ~ Oct. 30th, 11-8.”

The shops and buildings that lined the road were Victorian era, and many had obvious Irish roots. “The Emerald Inn,” was one. “Molly Maguire’s Pub,” another. He pulled the car in near the inn.

“Wait here, pet,” he told Angel. “I’ll get our room.” He climbed the stone steps and crossed the dining patio that overlooked the town. A thin, gray-haired woman at the desk looked up as he entered.

“Can I help you?” she said.

“Yeah, need a room,” Spike said, and she frowned.

“We’re all full,” she said. “I’m sorry. Between the Pumpkin Festival and the Homecoming game…”

Spike realized he must have ill-concealed his disappointment because the woman quickly shifted gears. 

“Hold on,” she said. “Let me make a few calls around town. There are a few B&Bs that might not be completely booked.” She pulled a laminated yellow card out of a desk file and dialed the top number. “Hi, Tom, it’s Helen. Listen, I just had a walk-in…”

\- - - - -

Four phone calls later, Helen was saying, “thanks, Bob, I’ll send them up now. Give Sheila my best.” She hung up the phone and came around the counter. “There’s a brown Victorian with a wrap-around porch around three blocks up, on the right. It’s a B&B, nice couple, just got into the business a few years ago. Beautiful property, but they’re trying to keep it authentic, so no TV or phone in the rooms. Sounds restful to me, but the tourists don’t like it.”

She walked Spike back outside and pointed up the hill. “There isn’t a sign,” she said, “but the name of the place is the Golden Angel, so there’s a statue in front of, well, a golden angel. Oh, by the way…” She lowered her voice as though she might be overheard, though at this hour the street was deserted. “Sheila’s a little bit flaky, but she’s harmless, you know. Enjoy your stay.”

Spike thanked her and went back to the car. Angel, who had been dozing, came half-awake, rubbing his eyes like a child. “Where are we going?” he said.

“Lodging house up the road,” Spike said, starting the car. “And you’ll never guess the name.”

\- - - - -

Moments later, the two vampires stood on the porch of the Golden Angel, looking and feeling very much like beggars. A bearded man and a woman with red curly hair greeted them, invited them in, and introduced themselves at Bob and Sheila.

“This is Liam,” Spike told them as they were led into the hallway. “And I’m called Will.”

Bob gave them a quick tour of the house, the restoration he was doing mostly on his own, but Sheila was quiet, looking at Angel intently. No, Angel realized after a moment. Looking *past* him.

They came to the bedroom they were to take. The “Golden Angel” theme had been carried throughout, in pictures and bric-a-brac, but here it was dominant, with a huge oil painting above the bed and another statue in the dormer window.

“The bath is through there,” Bob indicated. “No shower yet, I’m afraid, but there is a nice big bathtub.”

“Thank you,” Angel said. “And may I ask the rate?”

Bob looked uncomfortable, his profession of innkeeper still too new for an easy fit. “It’s eighty a night on Friday and Saturday,” he said. “Sixty a night the rest of the week.”

Angel nodded, considering. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll pay you a thousand a week if you’ll let us meet here with people we need to do business with. That’s a full thousand, even if we leave mid-week. Is that alright?”

Bob looked stunned. “Of course,” he said.

“Thank you,” Angel said again. “And William and I are both night owls, so if we don’t see you before late afternoon… don’t disturb us.”

\- - - - -

Spike checked out the bathroom, delighted at its size and the large bathtub after so long on the road. Sheila had left a basket on the chest of drawers with toiletries (full size, not the little slivers wrapped in paper they got at hotels) and Spike announced he was going to run a hot bath, and would Angel join him?

Spike helped Angel sink into the warm water, filled with bubbles and scented with chamomile and lavender, then climbed in on top of him, laughing. He slicked them both with soap, and twined around his lover like an otter.

\- - - - -

Angel was asleep as soon as Spike pulled the feather blanket over them, but Spike was still wired from the flight and the drive and lay awake a while longer, half-sprawled on Angel’s chest. In the corner of his vision, he thought he saw a spot of light moving near the window, but it vanished when he turned to look.

“Are you here, ghost?” he asked the silent room, and he thought he saw a curtain twitch. “It’s alright,” he said then. “I’ll take care of him, now.” And just outside the range of his sight, he thought he saw the light flare, and vanish.

\- - - - -

They descended the next afternoon to find their hosts arranging six jack-o-lanterns along the top rail of their front porch, which was broad and flat. When they saw their guests were up, Sheila brushed off her hands and came inside. “Just getting ready for the twilight pumpkin walk,” she said. “Most people along the street put them out. It’s pretty impressive to stand down at the corner of Bridge and look up the hill to see this long line of pumpkins.” She checked the mantle clock. “The festival’s still going, if you wanted to walk down,” she said.

“Maybe in a little while,” Angel said. “When the pumpkins have been lit.”

“Let me make you some tea, then,” she told them, heading towards the kitchen.

They sat in the parlor, the last dusty light of the afternoon sifting through the colored leaves outside and the parlor’s lace curtains to make shifting patterns on the flocked wallpaper. Sheila brought out a tray with pot and cups, and served them each, sitting down to join them.

“What you’ve done here, it’s very authentic,” Spike told her. “Had the house been preserved from the time it was made?”

Sheila laughed lightly. “Oh, no, quite the opposite,” she said. “The whole town, after the coal mines closed, more or less emptied out. So many of these grand ladies were boarded up and abandoned. This house, before we bought it, had a motorcycle gang living here. They’d done so much damage, chain-sawed the kitchen cabinets apart and moved them into other rooms, driven their motorcycles up and down the stairs. It was a mess.”

Spike looked around again and smiled. “In that case the restoration is remarkable,” he said. “You must have done a lot of research.”

“A bit,” Sheila admitted, “but mostly it came from the house’s original owners.”

Angel and Spike glanced at one another and frowned. “You mean…” Spike prompted, honestly not knowing what she meant.

Sheila blushed charmingly. “I’m very sensitive to spirits,” she said. “The original owners are still in residence.”

Angel rattled his teacup, but Spike smiled at their hostess. “How interesting,” he said. “You talk to ghosts, then?”

Sheila nodded. “I don’t like to call them ghosts, though,” she said. “They are simply the spirits of the departed.”

Angel put his cup down with shaking hands. “Are there any here now?” he said.

A look of understanding passed over her eyes. “Oh, no,” she said, then took a sip of her tea and murmured, “not anymore.”

\- - - - -

Once the sun had gone down, Angel And Spike did attend the Pumpkin Festival, enjoying the children’s costume parade, with awards of gift certificates from the town’s shops for the most beautiful, the funniest and scariest, and other awards for best home decoration and best jack-o-lanterns. After, they drank hot cider and ate ginger cookies shaped like bats and witches.

“So we’re staying here, do you think?” Spike asked as they rested on a corner bench near the town’s community playhouse.

Angel looked up and down the street: the once-faded glory of a wealthy coal town now arising as a community for artists and writers who could buy houses cheap, and a destination for tourists, shoppers, and sportsmen. It was small town, and determined to remain so, isolated in its mountain valley. He took Spike’s hand, leaned close in the darkness with the dry leaves blowing underfoot.

“We’re staying here, I think,” he said.

\- - - - -

Two weeks later:

Spike checked his email and was pleased to see that the ebay buyer for one of their battle axes had already come through with a Paypal payment. He must have really wanted it, Spike thought, and in his “thank you” note directed him to some of their other auctions.

He was going to call down and tell Angel the good news, but he could hear that he was on the phone to Connor, telling him that he didn’t care what Connor’s English Lit professor said, Angel had actually *met* the man, and he was a worthless laudanum drinker who cheated at cards. 

They had been living in the house four days. The Monday after arriving in town they’d met with Mary Reade, a realtor friend of Sheila’s, and gone through her loose-leaf binders with their beautiful pictures of area homes. They’d gone through the motions of visiting a number of them, but really there was only one that had grabbed them. They’d known it the minute they’d seen it.

It was an old Victorian, five bedrooms, one and three-quarters baths, but unlike the Golden Angel, this house had remained more or less unchanged over time. The façade had been repainted plain white at some point, as had most of the interior walls, but the hardwood floors, wooden paneling, and multiple fireplaces were still intact. A wide wooden staircase wound up through three stories, and a huge claw-footed bathtub stood in the master bath. 

Out back, the garden rose steeply into the mountains, and the once-careful plantings were overgrown and wild. A broad, wooden porch, half a story above the sidewalk, surrounded the house on three sides.

Since the house was empty, they were able to buy it right away, and the next evening Spike braved the lengthening afternoon shadows to get to an antique shop in town before it closed and inquire about the wooden sleigh-bed he’d seen through the window on one of his and Angel’s now-customary evening walks through their adopted town.

Angel had hired a seamstress to make heavy curtains for every window, eventually, beginning with the master bedroom. He purchased Venetian blinds of dark wood besides, and he and Spike set about planning what each room would be and how it would be decorated. Sheila had been extremely helpful in putting them in touch with suppliers of reproduction and vintage fabrics, wallpapers, and carpeting, and also in letting them know which stores in town had the best reputation and fairest prices.

Angel had retained a man and his son and daughter to do the interior work. Each day they brought swatches of fabric and books of wallpaper samples before setting to work, and Angel surveyed them all like the lord of the manor. But after the decorators left, he spread the samples out on the floor and engaged Spike in lively discussions about what should go where. They also employed two brothers to tend to the gardens and repaint the outside of the house. Each day they could see progress, and hoped things would be in order by the time Connor visited for Christmas.

Spike found Angel in the living room, which so far consisted of a red leather chair, a floor lamp, and a black rotary phone sitting on the floor. Angel looked up as Spike entered and waved him closer. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Connor,” he said. “Good luck on your test.” He hung up the phone and lunged forward, pulling Spike down into his lap. He kissed him firmly, and hugged him tight. 

“Sold the axe,” Spike said between kisses.

“Great,” Angel said. “Rebecca dropped off a stack of carpet samples for your TV room…”

\- - - - -

After darkness had fallen, Spike and Angel decided to take advantage of the warm weather of the last of Indian Summer and go for a walk. The shops were starting to decorate for Christmas to appeal to the early-season shopping tours, and the vampires peered through the windows at the ornamented lighted trees. 

Spike had the idea they should go down to Molly Maguire’s for a beer, but when they got to the Wonderland Cyber Café, the owner’s daughter, Desiree, called to them from the porch. “Will! Liam!” she said. “Come on up. I’m making Margaritas.”

They went up, and Spike gave Desiree a fond hug hello. “I didn’t know you served drinks here,” he said.

“We don’t,” she laughed, “but we’re having Mexican night. You pay for the food and your Margaritas are free. That way we stay legal.”

Angel declined the drink, ordering an espresso instead, but Spike got nachos grande and a slice of Mexican wedding cake, and finished off two Margaritas by himself.

When the café started to empty, Angel pulled some paint chips from his pocket. He invited Desiree to join them, and asked her opinion for the guest room.

\- - - - -

They got home after midnight, and both walked wordlessly through to the mudroom behind the kitchen. They stripped out of their good clothes and changed into loose, black outfits. They continued out through the back door and up the steep garden path. They faded into the woods like shadows.

They moved up through the darkness, weaving among the trees silently, until they scented the recent passing of deer. And then the hunt was on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read this far. I hope you enjoyed it. Please comment if you did. Thanks!


End file.
